


Small World

by savedatlast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, E-mail, F/M, Fluff, Internet, Love/Hate, M/M, Slow Burn, book store owner!Dean, you've got mail - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 03:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 50,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4419608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savedatlast/pseuds/savedatlast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester has owned and operated Book Haven for the last six years since his mother fell ill. Before Dean, she was the proprietor, as her father before her. The book store has been a landmark in the old part of the city for three generations. They have many loyal customers who often come in for a good book, some local gossip (courtesy of Charlie), and a friendly face. Lately, Dean’s business has been threatened with the encroaching presence of a new, mammoth, Garrison Books branch opening barely a stone’s throw from his (admittedly fantastic) window displays. To top it off, the CFO of said behemoth, one Castiel Novak, is possibly the most infuriating, self-righteous asshole that Dean has ever had the misfortune to meet. At least he has his loyal staff, weekly calls from his hotshot lawyer little brother and a budding something with a stranger on the internet he knows only as angelofthursday…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dean

**Author's Note:**

> This AU has been inspired by one of my favourite romcoms, You've Got Mail. I have taken a few liberties, as fas as story and plot go, but the basic gist of the film is all still there. This has been a year-long project, and the longest piece I've ever written. Longer than everything I've ever written combined. I'm glad it's finally finished, and I'm excited to finally be able to show all of you :)
> 
> Enjoy ;)

Dean awoke to the high-pitched whine of a hairdryer coming from the adjoining bathroom.

He had been in the middle of a wonderfully peaceful dream, driving his beloved ’67 Chevy Impala down the unusually deserted streets of downtown New York, windows down, music cranked... When he noted the soft light growing behind his closed eyes and the draft on his leg, bared to the room during the night by the dishevelled duvet, he fought fruitlessly to postpone his return to chilly, noisy consciousness. He lay there for a moment, refusing to open his eyes on the off-chance he’d drift back into sleep. He waited. Tried to envision himself behind the wheel again, speeding down 5th avenue...

No dice. He turned over, away from the light that was slotting in through the half-closed drapes and tucking his leg back under the covers.

A quick glance at the clock on the bedside table told him it wasn’t yet 7:00. Of course he’d be woken up early the one day a week he takes a later shift at the store.

Actually, Dean could have sworn Bela had told him that she had the morning off as well. Why the hell was she up so early?

He heaved a sigh and pulled the covers higher, burying his face deeper into the pillow and trying in vain once more to recapture the dream. The racket stopped and a moment later, he heard the bedroom door open. He pretended to be asleep.  
  
It wasn't that he didn't like Bela... She was gorgeous; tall, blonde, eyes the colour of pale jade, even had an incredibly sexy British accent to boot. He liked her, but lately he'd been wondering if they rushed into the relationship too fast. She was practically living at Dean's apartment and they'd only been dating for four months. She was great, but she could be a bit... challenging to live with at times.

"Dean." Bela thumped him hard on the shoulder. "I can tell when you're not sleeping. Come and see me off."          
Dean cracked one green eye open. She was standing beside the bed, dangerously high heels in hand, wearing a grey pencil skirt, a plum-coloured blouse and an impatient pout.

“Thought you didn’t have work ‘til later?” Dean mumbled against the pillow.

Bela waved her free hand dismissively and stalked over to the chaise at the foot of the bed to slip on her shoes. “That was before the gallery called me for an emergency meeting with a very prestigious potential buyer.”

Dean closed his eye again and groaned, rolling off the exceptionally comfortable memory-foam mattress he’d splurged on shortly after moving into this apartment a year ago.

Bela waited with a hand on her hip as Dean dragged himself out of bed and plodded the few steps over to his well-dressed, sophisticated art dealer girlfriend. She jutted her chin forward and he leaned down to give her a quick peck on the lips.

Down on the already bustling New York City street, a taxi honked its horn.

“That’s me. Gotta run.” Bela snagged her oversized bag from the hook on the back of the bedroom door.

“See you tonight?” he called as she headed for the foyer.

“Let’s get some take-out!” she replied as she rushed out the front door.

He let the peace and quiet envelop him like a soft blanket, and blinked the sleep out of his eyes as he wandered in the direction of the kitchen. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot Bela brewed earlier, and turned off the percolator. Mug in hand, beginning to feel more relaxed now that he had the place to himself, he headed to the living room where his laptop was sitting on the coffee table. He dropped to the couch and booted up the computer, excitement tingling under his skin at the thought of another message from Thursday.

A month ago, on his thirtieth birthday, he found himself in a random chat room online. He and his younger brother, Sam, were both thoroughly sloshed at that point, having left the bar early to come back and have a few drinks on their own before Sam’s return to Buffalo in the morning. Sam was in the middle of a pretty high-profile case and he’d had to all but bribe his fellow councillors to give him two days off from proceedings to come down for his big brother’s birthday.

He’d also had to leave his wife, Jess, and their fourteen month old son, Henry, on their own for a couple days. Jess had sent her love and wished Dean a happy birthday on the phone when Sam called to check in upon arrival. Dean was always thrilled to have some one-on-one time with his brother, but he kind of wished they had come down too. It had been months since he’d last seen them.

Sam had been a bit reluctant to leave his wife to deal with their young child alone, but Jess wasn’t feeling up to a long drive, and sent Sam out the door with a knowing smirk and a kiss, professing that she ‘wouldn’t want to get in the way of the drunken brotherly bonding anyway’.

Said brotherly bonding had consisted of a case and a half of beer, a fairly one-sided conversation about Dean needing more friends, and – Dean wasn’t entirely sure how this happened – a ridiculously juvenile game of truth or dare. It was shortly after Sam pointed out that only three people had attended Dean’s birthday celebration at the bar that evening, that Dean had picked ‘dare’, and Sam, cocky after his fifth bottle of Bud decided it would be hilarious if Dean took to the World Wide Web to try and ‘make some friends’. The guy couldn’t count past 10 without using his fingers right now, but he wasn’t too drunk to remember the URL for the chat service his creepy Stanford roommate had always been on.

That’s how Dean ended up on some sketchy website that had likely been featured on Dateline, at 11:45pm on a Saturday, talking to a seemingly normal guy he knew only as ‘angelofthursday’. Dean thought the username sounded a bit feminine at first, and was frankly, a bit surprised to discover that he was talking to a man after a few minutes of alcohol-induced flirting, which he promptly ceased; mostly out of consideration for the other guy and just to cover his own ass. You never know who swings in which direction or how pissed off they’ll be if you get it wrong.

Dean had discovered a long time ago that he was more or less equally attracted to women and men alike. It wasn’t until his senior year of high school that he discovered the official term, and not ‘til his twenty-third birthday that he worked up the courage to tell his brother. Surprisingly enough, Sam wasn’t completely shocked. He was, however, very supportive and happy that Dean had felt comfortable telling him. Dean was grateful for that, but he couldn’t figure out how Sam had known. His wise younger brother had cocked an eyebrow and delivered unto him three words: Doctor Sexy, MD.

Sam convinced him to tell their parents at dinner a week later. With Sam smiling up at him reassuringly, Dean had stood up from his seat at the table, announced that he had something to say, and with shaking hands and a wavering voice, had told his Mother and Father his well-kept secret. Or so he thought. Apparently, _he_ was the only one still under that impression. His mother had risen from the table to gather him into a hug, and told him that they’d known for a while. His dad had just nodded from his seat, a small smile threatening to break the surface of his otherwise calm facade. When he asked them how they’d known, Mary had simply replied with another famous name: Captain Kirk. Sam had laughed for days about that one.

Once the most important people in his life knew and accepted him, Dean didn’t care who else knew. It was freeing.

Regardless, Dean wasn’t about to go and make some guy uncomfortable. He’d made the mistake once or twice of hitting on the wrong guys. Rarely did it end well. This guy hadn’t seemed all that receptive to Dean’s advances anyway.

For the next few hours, they discussed everything; music, movies, what they were doing in seedy chat rooms past eleven on a Saturday... The only things that they left barred were identifiers. Name, appearance, address, job; they decided it was for the best, since neither one was expecting this to go beyond one chance encounter.

By the time the conversation had slowed, and Dean’s alcohol-doused brain was demanding sleep, and Sammy had been passed out on the sofa for a good hour, they found that neither one of them wanted to say goodbye. Dean couldn’t explain it, but he’d felt a kind of connection with this stranger. He didn’t hate it, but he was a bit apprehensive about becoming pen pals with a person he knew nothing about.

Well, to be fair, not _nothing_.

He knew that his musical tastes were vastly different from Dean’s, and that he had a cat named Inias.

He knew that he tried to eat mostly organic and locally sourced food, but had an infallible weakness for White Castle burgers.

He knew that, like Dean, he lived in New York and that he liked to go for long walks through the city at night when it’s all lit up and dazzling.

So despite every rational bone in his body telling him that this was a bad idea, he exchanged e-mail addresses with the guy. He hit a snag when he realized that the only e-mail address he had contained his full name. He hastily set up a free e-mail account and used his chat handle – the first thing that had popped into his head after a night of drinking: Zeppelin67 – to complete the address.

By the next morning, waking up on the floor of his living room, Sam still sprawled out on the couch, dead to the world, Dean had forgotten all about the chat room. It wasn’t until later in the day, after he had seen Sam off, and thanked him for the hundredth time for coming down, that a quiet beep from his computer signalling an incoming e-mail had jogged his memory. He stared at the screen, the browser tab housing the free e-mail site still open from last night, now flashed ‘(1) New Mail’ at him impatiently. He clicked on the tab, and there it was. The first of many e-mails he would receive from angelofthursday.

Over the next four weeks, they corresponded daily. Dean would talk about how he hated taking the subway and leaving his Baby in the parking garage every day. Thursday would counter with some ridiculous thing his cat did and how, aside from the constantly, inexorably congested roads, the rising cost of gasoline should be reason enough for anyone to take public transit. They were conversations about nothing, but as a whole, it was quickly becoming _something_.

Dean sipped his coffee and flicked absently through the newspaper on the table as he waited for his laptop to start up. As soon as the desktop appeared, he opened the browser and hit the bookmark for the e-mail site with probably way too much enthusiasm, but he was the only one here and he didn’t care.

In just four weeks these e-mails had become more enticing than the increasingly banal conversations he struggled to maintain with Bela, and while he did feel a bit guilty about that, he relished the little burst of excitement that surfaced every time he saw a new message in his inbox. As strange as this whole situation was, Dean was becoming more and more attached to this anonymous, text-based relationship. So much so that every time he checked his inbox and found it empty, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

Today, he was not disappointed. He unconsciously held his breath as he clicked on the link to open the message and grinned as he read Thursday’s latest letter.

\---

Date                                 From                                 Subject  
**Monday Feb 24, 2014     angelofthursd....              (no subject)**  
6:27am

                Monday mornings are inarguably the worst thing that could happen to a 5-day a week, 9 to 5 type of working person. Especially when said person was coerced into going bar hopping on Sunday night until 3:00AM. I guess it serves me right for believing my brother when he said ‘no later than ten’. I must admit I find it odd that I essentially act as a chaperone for my _older_ brother on these excursions. By eleven he’s usually unable to walk in a straight line but insists that he can still drink two drinks at once _and_ flirt with the bartender.

                I hope your schedule allows for you to get a good night’s sleep and your Monday mornings are nice and relaxing. I will have to make an effort to be more diligent in the future when my brother suggests celebratory drinks on a Sunday night.

Sincerely,

Thursday  
(which, coincidentally, is my favourite day of the week, for reasons I may reveal at a later date)

\---          

Dean laughed, imagining Thursday’s fabled older brother trying to juggle two drinks and a bartender, but he was sympathetic of his friend’s horrible Monday, having had a few of those himself. Mind, those were most often his own doing, so he couldn’t complain too much.

He wondered briefly what was so special about Thursdays as he began typing a reply.

\---

To                                 Subject  
angelofthursday@...      (no subject)

                Wow. How are you alive right now? Sorry to hear that you’re not a fan of Mondays. It’s actually the one day a week I get to sleep in. I wonder if that was a subconscious decision based on years of hating Monday mornings like yourself. That sounds like something my genius little brother would say.

Since I get to make my own schedule I force myself to take the early shifts. Gives me more time in the evenings to do other stuff, since I usually end up working seven day weeks. So yeah, Mondays are pretty good for me. But look on the bright side, at least you get weekends.

Actually, this weekend I’m taking a couple days off to take my Baby upstate and visit my brother. Can’t even tell you how much I’m looking forward to that. Finally, I can drive somewhere.

Hope the rest of your day doesn’t suck.

-Zeppelin

\---

With a content smirk, he hit send and downed the rest of his coffee. The clock above the TV read just past eight. Dean sighed and pushed himself off the couch. He returned to the kitchen and popped two slices of bread into the toaster before shambling off to his room to get dressed. If he was up, he may as well go in to work.

*

Book Haven, a used-and-new bookstore with a gorgeous old, painted facade and a huge display window, had been owned by his mother’s family for two generations before it was passed on to Mary. By that time she had already met John, and the two had been dating for quite some time. Her father hadn’t been overly fond of his daughter’s choice for a husband and he didn’t exactly keep quiet about it, so Mary had planned on eloping with John, getting far away from New York and living simple in the country somewhere.

That plan never came to be. The very night they had decided to run, both of Mary’s parents were killed in a disastrous home invasion. Compelled by grief and guilt, Mary took over the store, John took a job as a mechanic in the heart of the city, and they made do.

A decade later, they had two young boys, and the city had grown. The bookstore did remarkably well under Mary’s ownership, even better than in previous years, due in no small part to her warmth and ability to connect with every one of her customers.

As soon as Dean could reach the counter, he started helping his mom out on weekends – dusting shelves, sweeping the entrance, occasionally keeping customers’ kids entertained. He loved it and had always looked forward to the day when he’d be running the place. However, he didn’t expect it to happen quite as soon as it did.

Mary fell irreparably ill five years ago, and Dean took over. It was another hard, long year before she finally succumbed to her illness and was able to be at rest. Once word got around, the turnout at the store was overwhelming. People came from all over the city to offer their condolences and Dean found that he had to excuse himself and rush to the back room to avoid breaking down in public on more than one occasion that week. Sam had even taken a semester off from university at Stanford to help out at the store and at home, knowing full well that his brother was in no fit state to handle it all alone.

Their father didn’t take Mary’s death well, and spent months subsequent with a bottle in his hand. Sam would hide the car keys, which always led to a fight, which led to John storming out of the house and walking off down the street to the nearest bar.

One night Sam was out late and forgot to hide the keys, and John drove the Impala into a lamp post. He wasn’t wearing his seatbelt and was thrown through the windshield. By some miracle, he survived. John had been in the hospital for months, recovering from broken ribs, a broken clavicle, broken leg, broken arm... He never touched the drink after that.

While John was in the hospital, Dean had channelled all his frustration and worry into fixing up the car and when his dad was finally able to go home, Dean picked him up in the newly refurbished beauty and he swore he saw tears in his father’s eyes. John decided right then and there that Dean deserved the classic car more than he did.

If only Dean had more chances to drive her. Bi-monthly journeys upstate to visit Sam, and a yearly pilgrimage out to South Dakota to spend Thanksgiving with John, who was now retired and living in a nice big cabin on a lake, were not enough to sate him. There was an ever-present itch to get his hands on the steering wheel and his foot on the accelerator.

He stepped out of the subway station and onto the bright sunlit street. He was lucky to work so close to the station, especially in February when the city was cold and rainy more often than not. But on rare days like this, when the sun was shining and the air was crisp, with the promise of spring in a few short weeks, he didn’t mind the walk. It sure beat trying to shield oneself from diagonal rain with an umbrella that’s being whipped six directions in gale force winds.

He was reminded of something Thursday had mentioned a couple weeks back about the inevitability of rain the one day he forgot to bring an umbrella and cringed. The forecast hadn’t called for rain until tomorrow evening, but he hoped the sun would at least stick around long enough for him to get home.

He rounded the corner and spotted Charlie, perched on the back of a bus stop bench in front of the large display window, already waiting for him. Dean had shot her a quick text before leaving to let her know he was coming in early after all, but hadn’t expected her to show up until eleven. He could have easily handled the store on his own for a couple hours.

As he approached, she hopped off the bench, clutching her warm, grey wool coat tightly around her. “Morning, boss.”

“Charlie,” Dean nodded, happy to see her despite his confusion, “you didn’t have to come in early.”

Charlie shook her head, “It’s cool, Kevin’s already covering for me later anyway.” She winked conspiratorially, “Date night.”

“Ah, gotcha,” Dean nodded again, turning to hide a fond smile as he unlocked the old door and let them in. “And how is Gilda?”

While they went about setting up shop, Charlie launched into a dramatic story about how some drunken sleaze-ball was hitting on her girlfriend last night while Gilda was tending bar at some swanky club downtown.

Dean has known Charlie long enough to know that this is quite a regular occurrence, and that despite the number of times Gilda has told her there’s nothing to be worried about, Charlie still worries. Not that some drunken sleaze-ball is going to steal her girl, but that one day, one drunken sleaze-ball won’t take no for an answer. Gilda often works the late, _late_ shifts, trying to fit a second job around her class schedule to cover expenses, and Charlie confided in Dean that she’s spent many a night lying awake, wondering if she’s all right.

“At least she’s almost finished grad school,” Charlie paused by the front of the store, staring wistfully out the window. “Soon she’ll be a school counsellor and the only thing I’ll have to worry about is what we’re going to do with all the extra time.” That set her mind down a completely different path and her expression shifted from concerned to intrigued.

“Charlie.” Dean snapped his fingers and she jolted out of whatever fantasy evening she was plotting in her head. He crossed the room to grab a stack of Young Readers novels and tousled her red hair on the way. “Gilda’s a tough girl, she can hold her own. A few harmless drunk dudes aren’t worth stressing yourself out over.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” She sighed deeply and took another stack from the counter. “So,” she began with a devious glint in her eye, “get any more e-mails from your mystery man lately?”

She grinned when his ears turned pink and he turned away from her to needlessly organize the self help books.

Charlie was the only one who knew about his regular correspondence with Thursday. The only reason she knew the whole story was because she had been at his apartment last week helping him fix his e-mail server which had gone awry. Once she had it up and running, three new e-mails from Thursday had popped into his inbox. Her curiosity and desire to know everything were no match for Dean’s weak attempts to brush it off, and honestly, it had been a bit of a relief to finally tell someone.

It felt less like a dirty little secret after that. He still hadn’t told Sam, for fear that he would get weird about it or make a big deal out of nothing. Like Charlie was doing now.

“This morning, now drop it.” He said edgily, stalking off toward the back room while Charlie’s giggles pervaded the small sales floor.

*

They opened their doors promptly at 9:30am and the first few regulars floated in. Dean greeted them all by name and set about helping them find what they were after while Charlie worked the till and changed out the books from the window display.

Around eleven, Chuck ambled in, coffee in hand, looking harried and like he hadn’t slept in a week. He mumbled a quick greeting and headed to the back. Dean exchanged a significant look with Charlie and they both shrugged.

A few minutes later, Chuck appeared through the half-curtain that hung in the narrow archway that separated the back room from the sales floor. He nodded politely to a few of their regular customers who looked a bit taken aback by his rather dishevelled appearance, and approached the front counter.

When he noticed the twin questioning looks Dean and Charlie were casting at him, he held up one hand in an attempt to stave them off. “Don’t even ask.”

They didn’t stop staring, so he added with a disdainful sigh, “My editor has been giving me hell because I haven’t sent her anything in weeks.”

Dean nodded, but in keeping with his role as owner and operator of the store, felt he needed to mention one thing. “Chuck, your shirt is inside out.”

He heard Charlie stifle a laugh as she pretended to be very busy with the display. Chuck inspected his shirt and, heaving another dramatic sigh, disappeared into the back room to fix it.

Dean shook his head, matching Charlie’s grin when she turned to exchange another knowing glance. He’s only known her for the better part of a year, but she had quickly become one of his best friends.

The 23-year-old had applied for a job last spring after Garth, one of many college kids that Dean often hired during semester breaks and big seasonal rushes, tendered his resignation with plans to travel south for school. The “now hiring” sign hadn’t been in the window ten minutes when Charlie came in to the store to drop off her resume. Dean had given her a brief interview and hired her then and there.

There was something about her. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it was like they’d known each other for years. Their working relationship was a breeze, and it made way for an equally easy personal relationship outside of the office. By the Fourth of July, Charlie was practically part of the family.

Dean had always been a bit of a sci-fi nerd, but thanks to Charlie he had far more opportunities to fully express his nerdiness, and even add to it, as she insisted on dragging him to D&D meets every Wednesday night.

Charlie was easily one of the best friends he ever had, but he was good friends with the rest of his staff as well.

Chuck Shurley had been working there long before Dean took over. He was a relatively unknown local author, working at the store for some extra income between royalty cheques. He was generally mild-mannered, jumpy, and kept to himself, but he knew more about books and the publishing business than anyone who had ever worked at Book Haven and was an asset to the store. Chuck had helped a great deal when Mary passed away, even going so far as to stay hours after closing for free to make sure everything would run smoothly for Dean in the morning. He was almost always at the Winchesters’ table for Thanksgiving.

Kevin Tran, a genius-level kid with a perfect GPA and a penchant for numbers, worked the books. Dean was never very good at the accounting, and he hated sitting at the tiny desk in the back crunching numbers long after the store had closed, so he placed an ad in a few newspapers looking for someone to balance the books. A few days with no response and things were looking bleak, when a primly-dressed 17-year-old Asian kid carrying a cello case and a newspaper showed up claiming to be the answer to all Dean’s prayers. Turns out he was. Kevin was incredible. He not only revolutionized their accounting system, but he also began helping out in other ways around the store; arranging shelves to maximize profits, giving Dean a breakdown of the best sellers of each quarter and which sales patterns tended to form and when, even reorganizing the break room in a more convenient and comfortable way. Now he’s completing his final year of high school and works four evenings a week. He gets most of the accounting done in the first hour or so of his shift and spends the rest of the time helping Charlie or Chuck out front.

Long story short, Dean was incredibly lucky. Everyone got along famously and he couldn’t be happier with the little group he had managed to pull together.

He leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest as he took in the scenery; a mother and her young son flipped through children’s books while two young women scoured the well-read novels in the used section. Nearest to the back room, Charlie was absently flipping through the new issue of Deadpool as Chuck nattered away to an older man about how Stephen King is a national treasure.

 _Doesn’t get much better than this_ , he mused as he pushed away from the counter to greet Mr. and Mrs. Carrigan, an elderly couple who had been regulars at Book Haven for years and had just walked through the door.


	2. Castiel

Castiel sat at the small glass dining table in the corner of his ultra-modern kitchen, reading the finance section of the daily paper and sipping on a double latte, made for him by some fancy machine that was given to him for his birthday last year. Every morning, he rose early, made himself a latte, and then set it to brew a double shot of espresso for Meg, his girlfriend of just under a year. He didn’t know how she could handle a double shot every morning. Usually one dose of caffeine was enough for Castiel; but today, an extra shot was required.

He’d barely got any sleep the night before, having been out with his brother-slash-business partner Gabriel well into the wee hours of the morning. They had been celebrating yet another triumph in the world of retail; the 250th location of Garrison Books just opened in a small town in Iowa, inevitably overpowering the tiny, family-run book store not three doors down. Construction on store number 251 was set to start in New York City just twelve blocks from Castiel’s apartment in a week’s time.

As it were, he was forced to attend yet another meeting this morning with the building owner, construction team, and investors before the store plans could be confirmed. He had tried to use that as an excuse to get out of last night’s endeavour, but Gabe wouldn’t hear it. Ergo, Castiel was now running on three hours of sleep, and about 40cc of caffeine. It was going to be a long day.

He supposed he could have slept in, but Castiel preferred a more leisurely start to his mornings. Much unlike Meg, who liked to sleep until the very last second and then spend 20 minutes rushing around their apartment getting ready.

As Meg dashed from the kitchen to the bathroom to the bedroom and back again, she rambled on about the latest offensive thing her boss said to her and how she was going to get him back. This was hardly news. Crowley always had terrible, distasteful remarks to dole out and Meg would always have to find a way to get him back.

Last month, when Castiel suggested she just quit and find a new job with a less confrontational boss, she scoffed as if _he_ was the irrational one and launched into a ten minute rant about how McCloud was the best publishing house in the country and she would be a complete fool to quit because of one asshole, and _why would Castiel even suggest that, did he think she couldn’t handle it?_

As it is, he’s only half-listening to her current rant, because honestly, he’d lost interest about six months ago when this whole issue began.

“Did you see him at the big company dinner last week? Lording it over everyone that he managed to clinch the deal of the century with that twenty-something up-and-comer... smarmy bastard,” She muttered, tucking her long, dark brown curls behind her ears as she dug through a drawer for a lid to the glass container that held her lunch.

“Uh huh,” Castiel replied, much more interested in the decline of his rival companies’ stocks than Meg’s recycled complaints. “You’re going to be late,” he gestured to the clock on the stove without looking, knowing that he was bound to be right.

Meg huffed at his indifference but followed his pointed finger to the stove, “Damn it.” She gathered her lunch and tossed the containers into the big black bag that she used in place of a briefcase. She scurried over to where Castiel was seated, gave him a quick peck on the cheek and dashed out of the apartment, glossy, black stilettos in hand.

Castiel exhaled, slouching in his seat, thankful for the peace and quiet. He checked the time sincerely and found that he still had half an hour before he had to leave for work. Carrying his coffee, he slumped off to his office, where his computer was already booted up and waiting for him.

 _Meg must have used it this morning_ , he mused.

He placed the mug down on the desk and, mostly out of habit, clicked the e-mail program shortcut on his desktop. He wasn’t surprised to find his inbox empty; it was far too early for his friend to be awake yet.

For the past month, Castiel had been corresponding with a stranger via e-mail. Well, it didn’t seem fair to call him a stranger anymore, but he didn’t know his name, age, address, or any concrete details beyond the fact that he was male and living in New York.

He had met this strange man in a chat room online several weeks ago. He never thought he would _ever_ find himself in one, but one fateful night at the end of January, he had been drinking (Gabriel’s doing, naturally), and was apparently impressionable enough to be goaded into entering one of the seedy chat rooms his brother was always trolling. That’s when he stumbled upon a seemingly normal individual, going by the username Zeppelin67, and they struck up a conversation.

The stranger, whom Castiel would come to call simply Zeppelin, had said he, too, was being coerced into chatting with random people, and had actually flirted with him a little, something Castiel realized only after Gabriel had pointed it out. When it was made clear that they were both male, the flirting stopped. Not that Castiel had been put off by it. He had never been flirted with anonymously, and he actually quite enjoyed the experience (once he knew it was happening, of course), and even though Castiel was currently seeing a woman, that hadn’t always been the case.

He didn’t like to label himself. He just liked who he liked. He preferred to focus on someone’s personality and values; perfunctory details like gender had never seemed to matter.

Gabriel had left shortly after they had really begun communicating, claiming that Castiel wasn’t paying him enough attention and he wanted to sleep in his own bed. Castiel remembered vaguely calling him a cab, and then returning to the mysterious stranger and their debate about whether classic rock or classical music was the superior genre. Castiel advocated for Handel and Mozart over Boston and Def Leppard. Zeppelin disagreed, which would seem obvious, given his choice of username. They talked into the early hours, until Zeppelin said his eyes were closing and Castiel couldn’t deny that it had become difficult to keep his open as well. With both parties unwilling to end whatever it was they’d started, they agreed to exchange e-mail addresses.

Castiel had only half-expected anything to come of it, and was admittedly a bit thrown when he awoke the next morning and the first thing he thought to do was e-mail his new friend.

He had been a bit apprehensive, and wondered if he was coming on too strong, making the first move mere hours after their impromptu chat room meeting. But when a cheerful reply came down the line later that day, any worries Castiel had had about being too forward dissolved away.

His grey tabby, Inias, hopped onto the window ledge beside the desk, pawing at the armrest on Castiel’s desk chair.

Castiel rolled closer to the window to scratch behind the cat’s ears while Inias purred and arched his back. Satisfied with the attention, the cat jumped back down and busied himself with a toy mouse on the floor beside the small padded pet bed that he refused to sleep in.

No, Inias spent his nights right next to Castiel, on the other side of the bed, far away from Meg. Inias never liked her, and Meg had stopped trying to earn his favour after a few weeks of scratched hands and wasted false affection. Now they just flat out ignored one another’s existence, which seemed to work out fine for both of them.

Castiel had told Zeppelin about Inias. Zeppelin had mentioned something about his brother’s overwhelming desire to have a dog, and how he wasn’t particularly partial to any of the four-legged creatures. Cats he didn’t mind, though he was a tad allergic. That had made Castiel smile. Maybe because he wanted Zeppelin to like Inias, like Meg never did. He didn’t quite understand that sentiment.

Barely stifling a yawn, and with a hint of a smile, Castiel began typing a new e-mail to his unorthodox pen pal.

*

Castiel arrived at the towering office building with fifteen minutes to spare before his meeting. He rode the glass elevator that scaled the side of the building to the twentieth floor, all the while thinking about how Zeppelin had said he’d hated them and ‘you couldn’t pay him enough’ to get him in one, constricted by a fear of heights that amassed a variety of other fears; flying, falling, and apparently, glass elevators.

Naturally, this meant that skydiving, one of Castiel’s favourite pastimes, was completely out of the question on the off chance that they ever progressed to meeting face to face.

Castiel was smiling at the city streets down below when the doors opened and Gabriel stepped onto the elevator looking like he’d been dragged through all seven circles of hell and back again. Gabe threw him the briefest of strange looks, but said nothing. Together they rode to the twenty-eighth floor in silence. A couple times, Castiel opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it when he caught the weary, wrecked look on his brother’s face.

The doors opened on their floor, and they vacated, Castiel lightly patting Gabriel on the shoulder – the only form of support he felt he could get away with right now. As ridiculous and irresponsible as his brother was, he was still his brother, and damn good at what he did, and he didn’t want to make him irritable before a big meeting. Castiel wasn’t as good at negotiating, or dealing with the construction crews.

Gabriel was a natural at conversation, and often knew exactly what to say to smooth ruffled feathers.

As they approached the boardroom door, Castiel spied their cousin and the CEO of Garrison Books, Raphael, waiting for them. He took a deep breath and tried to ignore how much he wished he could be back in his apartment and nestled under his warm duvet.

*

Three hours later, Castiel left the board room, even more drained than when he entered. He’d stayed silent for the most part, allowing Gabriel and Raphael to handle much of the talking, but when one of the investors asked him directly about something to do with profit margins, Castiel blanked. It was mortifying.

This time Gabriel comforted him with a clap on the shoulder. “At least you didn’t puke this time bro.”

With that, he plodded off to his office to presumably sleep away the afternoon on his leather couch.

Castiel took the stairs one floor down to his own office and collapsed onto the pristinely uncomfortable couch against the wall. His wasn’t leather upholstered like Gabriel’s. Castiel couldn’t even name the fabric. All he knew was that he didn’t like it.

He didn’t even know why it was there. He never used it. Half the time it just served as overflow storage for when he ran out of room in the small filing cabinet in the corner.

Tentatively he lay down with his head on an armrest. He tried to trick himself into believing it was comfortable enough to nap on for a half hour or so.

Not even close.

He stood and crossed the small room to his desk. He powered up his laptop while he tried to make the swivel chair, which was a minor improvement from the couch, as comfortable as possible.

First thing he did – first thing he always did – was check his e-mail. He wasn’t really expecting a reply from Zeppelin so soon, but there it was, patiently waiting. Castiel ignored the other messages in his inbox and opened the only one he really wanted to read.

\---

Date                                 From                     Subject ****  
Monday, Feb 24, 2014    zeppelin67...     (no subject)  
8:06am

                Wow. How are you alive right now? Sorry to hear that you’re not a fan of Mondays. It’s actually the one day a week I get to sleep in. I wonder if that was a subconscious decision based on years of hating Monday mornings like yourself. That sounds like something my genius little brother would say.

Since I get to make my own schedule I force myself to take the early shifts. Gives me more time in the evenings to do other stuff since I usually end up working seven day weeks. So yeah, Mondays are pretty good for me. But look on the bright side, at least you get weekends.

Actually, this weekend I’m taking a couple days off to take my Baby upstate and visit my brother. Can’t even tell you how much I’m looking forward to that. Finally, I can drive somewhere.

Hope the rest of your day doesn’t suck.

-Zeppelin

\---

Castiel grinned widely, which surprised him – he didn’t think he still had energy enough to do that.

He had told Zeppelin about his unfortunate night and subsequent Monday morning trials. Nice to know at least someone was sympathetic. He didn’t even think Meg noticed that he stumbled into bed at three only to be roused at six by her excessively loud alarm. Every morning he’s violently jolted awake by an assault to his ear drums that gets his heart rate going much faster than it should be at 6 AM, and it still takes a good minute and a half of blaring pop music to rouse Meg.

Castiel closed the lid of his laptop without so much as a cursory glance at the other messages. He drifted off to the coffee and break room down the hall, still with a sublime smile plastered on his face. The day was improving already.

He made himself a strong cup of coffee and sat in one of the more comfortable armchairs situated around the table, wondering if he’d ever get to see this magnificent vehicle that Zeppelin had mentioned. He wondered other things as well, like whether he’d ever get to see his face, or learn his name, or meet his brilliant younger brother. That was a dangerous path to wander down, though, so he promptly put an end to it. They had agreed that this would remain entirely anonymous. Only, the last few e-mails had Castiel wishing he could renege on that deal.

Gabriel sauntered in, looking slightly less hung-over, and bee-lined for the coffee maker. He poured himself a cup, took one sip and turned to Castiel with a look of immense displeasure.

“God, what is this, motor oil?” He poured the rest of the cup back into the carafe and began rifling through the cupboards for his not-so-secret stash of cafe mocha packets.

Castiel scowled in his chair, turning his attention back to thoughts of Zeppelin. He was seriously considering posing the question. _Should we meet?_

It’s not like they lived half a world away from each other, they both lived in New York. It would be a cinch to arrange a meeting... Castiel vowed to at least propose the idea later.

Gabriel was now sitting directly across from Castiel, an amused smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, one eyebrow raised, like he knew something no one else did.

“What?” Castiel prompted, feigning innocence.

“You can’t hide anything from me, kid.” Gabriel tilted his mug at him to emphasize the pointed look he was giving.

Castiel frowned, brows knitting together, “What are you talking about?’

Gabriel rolled his eyes and scoffed, “Don’t be coy, Castiel.” He delivered another significant look that Castiel could not interpret. “You and Meg.”

“Me and Meg what...?” Castiel sighed, growing tired of his brother’s game and the knowing looks he was shooting him over the table.

“You got engaged, obviously.” That smug look was once again on his brother’s face and all Castiel could think was _WRONG, WRONG, SO WRONG._ _Never in a thousand years._

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Castiel brushed him off, standing and chugging the rest of his coffee before placing the empty mug in the sink. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “It’s not that I don’t like her. Meg is great, she’s just...” He struggled to find the words.

“A pain in the ass?” Gabriel supplied, leaning over the back of his chair.

Castiel threw him a stern look. “That’s hardly fair. You know as well as I that I’m not the easiest person to live with, Gabriel.”

Gabriel chuckled humourlessly. “ _That’s_ an understatement.”

When he and his brother had been rooming together during college, there had been many a night when Gabriel would walk into the kitchen in search of a snack and find Castiel sitting at the table in the dark, staring at nothing, drumming his fingers on the tabletop as he worked through whatever issue was plaguing him at the time. He gave his older brother several heart attacks during the two years they shared that apartment. And that was just the tip of the ice berg.

Castiel had a tendency to sleepwalk right out of the building and half a block away before anyone would notice he was gone. As a child he did it frequently enough that his mother began sleeping in the living room. But there was more; he never remembered to change the laundry over when it was his turn, he often got distracted and left the fridge door wide open, he forgot to buy groceries on his way home nearly every week...

Castiel blew out a long breath and scuffed his foot on the laminate floor. “If Meg can put up with _me_ , she’s a damn saint.” He stared at the stained, particleboard-paneled ceiling and hoped Gabriel would leave it alone.

“Little brother, that girl is many things, but an angel she ain’t. Don’t settle for someone who’s most redeeming quality is their ability to _put up with you_.” Gabriel clapped him on the shoulder before heading back to his office, mug of sugary caffeine in hand, leaving Castiel to ponder his words.

Sometimes, Castiel thought as he watched his brother shuffle slowly down the hall, Gabriel could be very wise.

*

Just after lunch, Castiel received an urgent call from his sister, Anna. She had been asked to stay late and scrub in on a triple bypass. All she needed Castiel to do was watch her two young children, Michael and Hannah, for a few hours after school until she got home.

Castiel loved spending time with his niece and nephew, and often took them to different places around the city when he had them all to himself. Today, he’d decided, was going to be a wandering day. He felt like stretching his legs, and was eager to check out the area surrounding the proposed build site for the new store. He did some research and quickly discovered there was a street fair being held a few blocks south of there. It was perfect.

At 2:56, Castiel was standing outside the school with a gaggle of parents and daycare operators, waiting for the bell to ring. At precisely 3:00, the chimes sounded, the doors opened, and wave after wave of small children came pouring through them.

Castiel spotted Michael and Hannah quickly, and when they spotted him, their faces lit up and they ran even faster, each colliding with one of his legs and holding on for dear life. Michael was the older sibling, only just eight years old. Hannah was the baby, at six. They didn’t look much alike – Michael, with his sandy blond hair sticking up every which way, and Hannah, with her wavy brown locks falling free from their braids – except for bright blue eyes and matching toothy smiles.

He supposed they looked more like their father, though he never saw the man himself. He had been stationed overseas during Anna’s first pregnancy, and she had kept him secret until she couldn’t hide her growing belly any longer. He came back once after his first tour, when Castiel had coincidentally been on a business trip, and left promptly to start another before Castiel returned. From what he understood, he wasn’t going to make it back a second time. Anna had only one picture of him, which she kept hidden away in her nightstand drawer.

Castiel felt a twinge of sympathy for the bright young kids latched to his legs. He knew what it was like to grow up without a father, his own having walked out on them only a year after he was born. He sternly shoved those feelings aside and beamed down at his niece and nephew.

“Ready to go exploring?”

*

The street fair proved to be quite entertaining. Michael won two goldfish, one of which he generously gave to his sister, who hadn’t been able to win any. They ate far too much cotton candy, and had their faces painted – Michael was a tiger, Hannah bedecked in butterflies – and by the time they had rounded the corner upon which the next branch of Garrison Books was to be constructed, they were all beat.

They passed a deli, a holistic health store, and an upscale clothing boutique as they strolled down the fairly crowded street.

Michael spotted the sign for the quaint little bookstore first.

“Can we go in there, Uncle Cas?” He pleaded, “Jeremy at school says they have the best comic books.”

Castiel couldn’t help but wonder if this little store was destined to meet the same fate as others like it with the imminent arrival of a Garrison just down the street.

He shrugged. He could at least give them some business while they were still _in_ business. “Sure, why not.”


	3. A Chance Encounter

Dean was just coming off his lunch break when the bell over the door rang out and in strolled two small children, accompanied by a man holding two bags containing live goldfish, who looked to be about Dean’s age. _Must be nice_ , he thought wistfully.

He’d always wanted kids, a big family... Bela wasn’t interested. When Dean was asked to babysit his very young nephew over a weekend last month so Sam and Jess could have a nice, romantic anniversary together, Bela had spent Saturday night and most of Sunday at her own apartment, even though she usually preferred to stay at Dean’s.

Dean wished again that he had more chances to see his small extended family. Even if he talked to Sam and Co. at least once a week, he missed their faces, their physical presence in his life. He forced the thought from his head as he approached the three new patrons.

“Hi there,” Dean greeted them brightly. “Can I help you with anything?”

The man looked up from the autobiography of Bob Dylan that he had been leafing through at the sound of Dean’s voice. Up close, Dean was given the whole, ridiculously good-looking picture. The man had dark hair, swept neatly off to the side, wide, vibrant blue eyes, and the faintest hint of a 5 o’clock shadow. He was dressed smartly, but not too stuffy in dark jeans, a light blue collared shirt, and a dark grey sweater. He was nearly Dean’s height, and when he spoke in a low, gravelly voice Dean felt something pull tightly in the pit of his stomach.

“Hello,” the man replied. “I think we’re alright. My niece and nephew seem to have found what they were after.” He gestured to the children he was accompanying, who were scouring the comics rack.

 _Not his kids._ Dean made a mental note, as he did with all his customers, though he wasn’t sure why he bothered. He’d never seen them in here before, and the random one-timers rarely ever came back.

Dean nodded and added a hopeful, “Let me know if I can help you find anything.”

The man smiled politely and placed the book back on the shelf, walking over to join his small companions.

Dean retired that cause and did a quick sweep of the sales floor, checking that everything was in order, before going back to organizing the supply shelves behind the cash desk. It wasn’t too long before he heard the deep rumble of the man’s voice from directly behind him. He whirled around, nearly knocking a stack of receipt rolls off the end of the bottom shelf.

The blue eyed man was standing with his niece and nephew at the counter. The girl looked to be about five or six and had wavy, chestnut brown hair. She held up a non-fiction book about insects and an easy-reader about ballerinas.

“These are really cool books,” Dean smiled down at her, and she smiled back, shyly. “I’ll bet you’re an awesome reader.” The girl nodded proudly, smiling up at her uncle, who smiled back.

Dean lowered his gaze and rang the books through, placing them in a bag on their own and handing it to the little girl.

He turned to the boy. He was a couple years older, Dean wagered. He had wayward sandy blond hair, and could reach the counter, where he placed three back issues of Batwing. Dean greatly approved. He had a few of the Dark Knight comics from the ‘90s back at his apartment, but he’d read almost everything Batman-related that he could get his hands on growing up. “Nice selection, my man.” He reached down to fist-bump the kid, who returned it with zeal.

Their attractive uncle didn’t appear to be buying anything for himself, but he smiled fondly at the exchanges between Dean and the kids.

“You’re very good at that.” He said as he ushered his young charges down the counter so he could settle the bill, handing a goldfish off to each child.

“Good at what?” Dean avoided the man’s inhumanly blue eyes as he finished totalling their purchase.

“Talking to people, making conversation...” The man sounded a bit envious. Dean gave in and met his unassuming gaze.

“I guess. Just comes naturally, after working here practically my whole life.” He glanced behind him at the photo of him and his mom when he was nine, the first day he’d unofficially started working at Book Haven.

“That’s you? And your mother?” The man seemed intrigued.

“Yep. She ran it for years and now I do.” He thrust out his hand, the present being as good a time as any to break the ice. “Dean Winchester. Owner and operator, at your service.”

The man tentatively shook the extended hand, still maintaining a fairly unnerving amount of eye contact. “Castiel.”

“Cool name.” Dean replied, lamely, their hands still clasped together. He cleared his throat and retracted his hand. Off in the far corner he heard Charlie snicker and he felt a faint blush creep up to colour his ears. He was _so_ getting her back for that later.

Castiel didn’t seem to notice, thankfully. He continued with introductions of the kids, Michael and Hannah. “My sister’s children. I watch them some afternoons.” The kids didn’t seem to be fazed that their uncle was delaying their departure. They had found two comfy chairs in the corner of the childrens’ section and were deep into their new books.

“Cute kids. Good taste in literature.” He grinned, watching their little faces light up when they discovered something fascinating in their books.

Castiel nodded, then seemed to remember what he was here for. “I shouldn’t take up any more of your time. What was the total?”

Inside, Dean was shouting _‘by_ _all means, stay and take as much time as you’d like’_.

Instead he flashed his most charming smile, “No worries, that’ll be thirty-three dollars.”

Castiel, with his dark hair, bright eyes, and gravelly voice, handed over thirty-five, told Dean to keep the change, and corralled the kids out the door, all three waving as they left. Dean waved back, and as soon as the door swung closed, he began to miss them. He hoped they would be back soon. If ever.

Charlie sidled up to him while he was lost in thought, and nudged him in the ribs. “Who was that smokin’ hot piece of—“

“Charlie!” Dean hissed. They still had customers.

“Sorry boss.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, but only for a moment because she hadn’t finished her investigation. “For serious, who was that guy?”

Dean shrugged, “Just a customer. One-timer.”

Charlie scoffed, “Just a _really attractive_ customer, given that you were practically drooling on the cash register.” She smirked up at him.

Dean raised an eyebrow and shoved her shoulder lightly. Ignoring her annoying but not entirely untrue whispers of ‘you’re totally into him’ and shaking off the whole situation, he went to help Mrs. Carrigan reach a cook book on the top shelf.

*

Castiel dropped Hannah and Michael off at his sister’s house later that evening. Anna greeted them at the door, marvelling at their painted faces and the bags of books and goldfish they were each carrying.

“Did you say thank you to your Uncle Cas for taking you out today?” she prompted, beaming at her brother.

“Thanks Uncle Cas!” said Michael and Hannah in unison, and then they turned tail and bounded up the stairs with their haul.

Anna turned to Castiel with a grateful expression, “Thanks for watching them today, and sorry I keep dumping them on you.”

Castiel smiled small, reserved even in front of his older sister. “It’s no trouble. I enjoy spending time with them.”

Anna laughed, “Well they certainly love you.” She gestured toward the living room. “Come sit for a bit. Coffee?”

Castiel shook his head and went to sit on the plush loveseat that faced the TV. “How was work?” he called as Anna set about making herself a cup of earl grey in the kitchen.

“Same as always.” She replied, emerging from the kitchen and placing her tea on the coffee table before sinking into the oversized armchair to the left of the loveseat. “None of the interns know how to intubate no matter how many times they shadow me and so I end up doing everything myself.”

Anna was an ER nurse. She had studied for years to achieve this goal, and when Michael and Hannah’s father went overseas, she was forced to put her studies on hold to raise two young children. Once Michael was old enough to enter school and she could afford to put Hannah in day care, she took up day classes at NYU and managed to finish her degree in just over a year. Quite often, she would ask Castiel to watch them after school while she finished her shift, but he didn’t mind at all. His work at Garrison was usually done by two-thirty and then he had all the time in the world for his niece and nephew.

He once asked her why she never asked Gabriel, not out of any feelings of unfairness, but mere curiosity. She’d said one word: _sugar_. It made sense.

“So, what did you all do today?” Anna asked, sipping her tea.

Castiel reminisced about their afternoon. “There was a street fair not too far from their school, so we walked there.”

“Hence the face paint. And the goldfish.” Anna supplied.

“Yes. Then we walked around for a bit and stopped at a little bookstore on the same street where the new branch is opening...” He got lost in thought momentarily, remembering the charming and rather attractive green-eyed shop owner. What was his name?

 _Dean Winchester_. He felt a subtle tingling in the hand that had grasped Dean’s for a moment or two too long. He cleared his throat minutely.

“Michael wanted comics.”

Anna rolled her eyes, “Michael has more than enough comics.” She was four years his senior, Gabe being the middle child, but Castiel had always been closer to her growing up. They were far more like-minded than he and Gabriel, though he did love his eccentric, sugar-loving older brother.

She smiled at him gratefully, “Sounds like you three had a very nice afternoon.”

Castiel nodded in agreement. It most certainly was.


	4. Declarations of War

On a cool March morning, Dean was walking to work when he spotted it: The giant atrocity being built on the corner, and draped over the scaffolding, a large white tarp with words printed in bold black letters: ‘ _Coming soon... Garrison Books’._ It was quite possibly the worst thing that could happen to a small independent like Book Haven.

Dean’s already sour mood turned completely nuclear as he slumped off down the street to his small, now immensely dwarfed store.

He’d heard tales of the big chain store Garrison Books coming in and destroying all smaller bookstores within a 5 mile radius. Now there was going to be one not a stone’s throw from his window display. He refused to dwell on what that no doubt meant for his future, and the future of the store his family had kept standing – quite successfully, he might add – for four decades.

He unlocked the door and stood in the entrance for a few moments, looking around at the shelves chock full of old and new books, children’s books, travel guides, mystery, sci-fi, horror novels... Was all this going to be gone soon? He shook his head, centered himself, and pushed the thought from his mind. Closing the door behind him, he got to work.

*

Charlie burst through the door half an hour later, cheeks red from the cold. “Did you see the sign?!” She wasted no time in reminding Dean of their impending doom.

 _Not like I could have missed it_.

Dean shoved the cash drawer he’d been holding into the register a little more forcefully than needed. “Yeah.” He shrugged it off.

Charlie didn’t get the hint, “Aren’t you panicking? I think I might be a little...” She flopped onto one of the bean bag chairs in the children’s’ section.

“Nope.” Dean completed the opening procedure on autopilot. “’Cause they’re not going to get us like they got the others. We have a history in this town.”

“But-“ Charlie protested.

“But nothing.” Dean stopped writing last night’s sales figures in his quarterly chart to level a serious stare at her. “Our customers, our regulars, our _people,_ ” he pointed his pen at her for emphasis, “will not let them take us down.”

He spoke with enough conviction that Charlie’s panic seemed to lessen significantly. She nodded. “You’re right.”

Dean smiled at her. “Damn straight.” He just hoped he _was_ right.

*

Date                                   From                        Subject  
**Friday Mar 7, 2014           angelofthurs...       (no subject)  
** 3:58pm

Dear Zeppelin,

I feel that our friendship has progressed to the point where I can tell you about Thursdays, and why they are my favourite day.

I have, for years, taken Thursday afternoons off from work. My usual work day ends at 2:30, but on Thursdays, I am out of the building by one. The reason for this is simple: Half-priced gyros at the little Mediterranean bistro on my street. The promotion only runs until 1:00, and they are, quite possibly, the best thing I have ever eaten. I look forward to them every Thursday.

I hope this finds you well,  
Thursday

\---

Date                                 From                  Subject   
**Monday Mar 10, 2014    zeppelin67...     (no subject)**  
7:55 am

Once again, I’m up early on a Monday. These are supposed to be _my_ mornings. I just hope I don’t get dragged to this BS party that’s happening tonight. Honestly, if I didn’t have to be at work in three hours I’d just go crawl back in bed for the rest of the day.

Ever since you mentioned the gyros I’ve been craving Greek food. Damn I could go for some souvlaki right about now. Yes, I realize it’s 8am. Don’t judge me.

Hope your Monday looks better than mine.   
-Zepp

*

“Why do I have to go?” Dean whined as he buttoned up the black silk shirt Bela had thrown at him moments earlier. She had swept into his apartment at half past six in a royal blue, curve-hugging dress, just as Dean was sitting down with a beer and some reruns of M.A.S.H., and demanded that he make himself presentable. She’d received two tickets to a gala hosted by the owner of one of the biggest publishing houses in the country a week ago and had been threatening to make him go ever since.

Dean wasn’t fond of dressing up. Nor was he particularly fond of the idea of socializing with a bunch of snobby rich people he’d never met before. He’d half hoped that by this evening, Bela would have found someone else to take.

“Stop complaining and hurry up.” Bela called from the bathroom where she was touching up her mascara for the fifth time. “We’re already late.”

They arrived at the twenty story swanky apartment tower at seven forty-five. Naturally, the party was being held in the penthouse. They stepped out of the elevator and knocked on the door, where they were greeted by a blonde woman wearing a scowl, an all black pantsuit and a nametag that read “Ruby”, and underneath, “McCloud Publishing Inc.”.

She didn’t seem all that jazzed to be standing by the door, greeting guests. Not that Dean could blame her. He’d have bolted the second they’d left the taxi if Bela hadn’t held a vice grip on his arm right to the elevator doors.

“Evening,” he nodded at the unamused greeter. Bela just clicked her tongue and pulled him into the apartment.

Bela was working her magic, pulling out all the stops to charm potential new clients. Dean had been nodding and laughing at the appropriate intervals, but hadn’t offered anything to the conversation for a good twenty minutes. He finally spotted a lull in the bar queue and excused himself.

“Bring me a glass of pinot gris would you, darling?” Bela added offhand as he extricated his arm from hers and practically ran to the bar.

Away from the crowd, he could finally breathe. He stepped up to the bartender, ordered Bela’s wine and a scotch on the rocks for himself and moved off to the side to let the next guest order. He was more than surprised to find that the attendee standing behind him was the dark haired, blue eyed, gravel-voiced, _hot as hell_ , cute-kid-toting man who’d been in his store two weeks ago, looking completely edible in a pristinely tailored light grey suit and navy dress shirt with the first two buttons undone.

“Hi.” The word escaped before he had fully formed an opening line. The man turned his bright blue eyes in his direction and all the words he thought he knew fell out of his head.

“Oh.” A look of recognition and then surprise flitted across his face. “Mr... Winchester, was it? From the little bookstore.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a small, polite smile.

“Yeah, that’s me.” Dean chuckled. It was suddenly very hot in this large, open space. “Castiel, right?”

“Yes.” Castiel turned away momentarily to order a vodka cranberry and a glass of merlot before returning his attention to Dean. “We should move away from the line.” He gestured at the small group of people who had accumulated behind them.

“Right.” Dean followed Castiel to the other end of the small bar where they awaited their drinks. “Didn’t think I’d see you here,” Dean supplied the obvious.

“Likewise.” Castiel scanned the crowd, eyebrows knitting together. “How’s business?”

“Better than ever.” That was a lie. Business had already begun to slow down with just the mention of a Garrison Books opening down the street.

Castiel nodded, but it didn’t seem like he believed him. “That’s good.” He scanned the crowd again, undoubtedly looking for someone.

Dean swallowed, throat a bit dry. He wished he had that scotch. He glanced at the bartender, who was just now uncorking a new bottle of white wine.

“How are the kids? Michael and Hannah, right?” Dean scrounged for some more small talk. Anything to keep the conversation that Castiel appeared to be losing interest in, going.

“They are very well, thank you.” A few more moments of awkward silence passed as Dean tried to come up with something else to talk about and Castiel’s pretty blue eyes scanned the room.

Dean tugged at the collar of his suddenly constricting shirt. “Kinda hot in here, isn’t it?” was all he could come up with. Castiel barely took notice, replying with a distracted “Hmm?” Maybe it was just Dean. The other man certainly didn’t look as uncomfortable as Dean felt at that moment.

The bartender cleared his throat and both men turned to the bar.

Castiel reached for his two glasses. “I need to deliver this.” He help up the vodka cranberry and with another polite little smile, turned and disappeared into the crowd, taking any hopes Dean had had for a less-boring evening with him.

Dean mumbled ‘nice to see you too’ as he grabbed both his drinks and stalked off to Bela.

He was stopped in his path by an old family friend, Bobby Singer. Bobby used to own the auto shop where John worked. He was like an uncle to Dean and Sam. One day he struck it big playing keno, handed ownership of the shop over to John for next to nothing, and opened a classic car museum on Staten Island.

“I can’t believe you were talking to the C.F.O of Garrison Books.” Bobby looked a bit surprised, and mostly unimpressed.

“What? When?” Dean looked around the room. He’d been ‘introduced’ to lots of people tonight and hadn’t really paid attention to any of their names.

“Castiel Novak.” Bobby nodded over to where tall, dark and handsome was standing, red wine in hand, next to a petite brunette in a svelte black cocktail dress.

Dean felt his face grow hot. He had unknowingly been chatting up the purveyor of his inevitable destruction. Well, _trying_ was more like. The bastard most definitely knew it, too. Bobby patted him on the shoulder and continued on to the bar.

Clutching the glasses a bit tighter, he swiftly returned to Bela. He thrust the glass of white into her hand and stormed off to the patio, ignoring her inquiring calls and downing his scotch on the way. He needed air.

The second the patio doors closed behind him, he felt better. Not about the whole Novak situation, that was still profoundly embarrassing, but the cool breeze on his face was working to calm him down enough that he could think. There were a few people sitting outside, but they paid no attention to Dean.

He had been _chatting up_ the freaking C.F.O. of the company that was out to shut him down. He knew he should have stayed home today. He dropped into one of the cushioned metal chairs and leaned forward, head in his hands.

 _Okay. It’s fine. Whatever. Not like I was getting anywhere._ He breathed in deeply, absorbing the cool night air, imagining it clearing his head…

_Because he knows he’s going to shut you down and flirting with you would have been tacky._

Okay it wasn’t working. Dean was still pissed. He stood up promptly, chair skittering backward and earning him affronted glares from the other people on the balcony, and went back inside. He contemplated going back to the bar for more scotch to numb his overactive brain, but on the way there, he spotted Mr. CFO himself over by the hors d’oeurves, and made a detour.

He approached Castiel with the intention of picking a fight, but as he got closer, his resolve grew weaker.

“So.” He began when he arrived at Castiel’s side.

The man glanced over at him, but continued to spoon pasta salad onto his plate.

Dean felt a flicker of anger, but bridled it. “You’re Castiel Novak. Chief Financial Officer of Garrison Books.” It was a statement, but it sounded more like a challenge.

Castiel paused briefly, spoon overflowing with pasta salad, before continuing to dole it onto his plate like he hadn’t paused at all. “I am.” His expression was flat. There was no way to tell what he was thinking and it was a bit unnerving.

“The same Garrison Books that’s opening on the corner of _my_ street with the intentions of shutting me down, is that right?” Dean could feel his hackles rise, feel his face grow hot, hands balling into fists.

Castiel dropped the spoon into the bowl and met his gaze, unflinching. “Not exactly.”

Dean raised a brow, “ _Not exactly._ But that’s what you’re betting on, isn’t it? That I’ll cave?”

Novak’s stony facade faltered and he looked confused, maybe a bit concerned. It only served to make Dean angrier.

“So what, you were spying on us then?” he crossed his arms over his chest as he took in the other man’s confused expression.

“Why on earth would I have been spying on you?” Castiel seemed genuinely confused. His brow was furrowed but he didn’t look at Dean; just kept on filling up his plate with things from the table and avoiding eye contact.

“Well, why else would you have come into my store mere days before that giant eyesore showed up on our block?” Dean had half a mind to smack the damn plate out of his hands but thought better of it. Castiel had stopped filling his plate anyway, and was now looking at Dean.

Dean stood up a bit straighter, ignoring the part of his brain that was captivated by how blue Castiel’s eyes were. “Well?”

Castiel shrugged. “I was spending the afternoon with my sister’s children. We were walking around the area. Michael saw the store and asked to go in. I said ‘why not’. _Shall I continue_?” His voice had gained an edge to it and he appeared to be growing increasingly frustrated, the hand holding the plate was shaking slightly. A few guests nearby had turned to look at the pair, leaning in and whispering to their partners. Dean ignored them.

“But you knew.” Dean refused to let him off that easy. “You knew you were opening that store and you knew _we_ would be your competition.”

“I did know that we were opening the store there, and yes, I wanted to check out the area. But I hardly think your little store, which probably averages about what, $850,000 a year?” He paused, waiting for some sort of confirmation. Dean nodded reluctantly, wondering how he could have obtained that information.

“That doesn’t sound very threatening to me,” he finished with an air of smug satisfaction. Castiel returned to his previous task of piling his plate with food. “Besides,” he added, “it’s not personal, it’s business.”

Dean struggled for a moment to think of something to say. Why he ever thought this pretentious A-hole was worth his time, he couldn’t remember. Well, aside from the physical aspects of his being which were quite impressive, even when he was being a jerk. Dean swallowed thickly, fighting with the tension building in his throat as a result of their unpleasant conversation, and maybe a hint of something else as well.

“Well don’t expect me to just lie down and accept defeat.” Those bright blue eyes flashed a hint of something – regret, maybe? – as he met Dean’s irate gaze. “I’m not going down without a fight.” He spat out, matching the man’s unwavering stare with determination, despite the discomfort growing in the pit of his stomach. He should walk away.

Castiel carefully put his plate down on the table. Their eyes were still locked. Neither was blinking, as if even that involuntary action would signify defeat. Castiel’s mouth opened and closed, then opened again like he was trying to find the words to reply.

Once again, regret and a hint of sympathy flashed across Castiel’s face and before he could say anything, Dean was turning away and walking briskly in the opposite direction.

Once Dean was out of eye-line, he rounded a corner and leaned against the wall, adrenaline still pumping through his bloodstream. He took a few deep breaths, ignoring the questioning looks of the people standing nearby.

He hadn’t been that confrontational in years and it was starting to sink in that he might actually lose his business, his second home, his _life_. He wasn’t going to let it go easily. He needed a strategy.

Bela sauntered by and noticed him braced up against the wall. “There you are!” She stomped up to him, hands outstretched. “I’ve been looking for you, where did you disappear to?” Without so much as an ‘are you alright?’ she grabbed his arm and pulled him off into the throng in search of her next victim.

Dean couldn’t wait to go home.

*

To                              Subject  
angelofthurs...     (no subject)

You would not believe the night I had. I knew I should have stayed in bed. I won’t go into too much detail, but it sucked. Big time. I got into it a bit with this guy who’s basically out to ruin my life. We exchanged some words and I said some shit I probably shouldn’t have, but it’s too late to take it back now. I don’t know why it’s bothering me. It’s almost two and I have to work tomorrow but I can’t sleep.

Anyway, hopefully tomorrow will be better. Maybe I’ll stop on my way to work and get myself an extra greasy breakfast to make up for all the rabbit food I had to eat last night. Start my day off right.

This might sound cheesy or whatever, but just typing this e-mail to you, I already feel better. Is that weird? I’m too tired to care.  
  
Goodnight Thursday.  
-Zeppelin

\---

The next morning, when Dean’s alarm went off at 6:30 and he found himself alone in his bed, he didn’t even mind. He rolled out of bed, showered, dressed, and went into the kitchen to make himself some coffee to go. There was a note on the fridge from Bela:

‘Early meeting, be back late.

xo’

It didn’t surprise him. Bela was always working late these days, and early meetings were a regular occurrence as some of her buyers came from around the world, and with their jet-lagged brains, preferred to meet at five in the morning while they were still awake.

He poured his coffee into a travel mug, grabbed his keys off the hook by the door, and headed out.

*

Dean’s morning did not go as planned.

On his way to work, he had intended to stop at his favourite diner and grab some bacon and eggs to go, but found that they were closed. A sign on the door told him the owners had a family emergency. He hoped everything was alright, but made a mental note to swing by later in the week to check in with Benny, the house cook, and a good friend of Dean’s. He popped into the cafe next door and ordered the only thing that looked remotely appetizing: a blueberry danish.

At nine-thirty, Kevin called in to say he wasn’t going to make it to his eleven o’clock shift; nasty bout of the flu. Dean wished him well and immediately put a call out to Charlie to see if she could come in earlier. No dice. She had a doctor’s appointment at one and couldn’t make it in until at least three. Her shift was scheduled to start at four anyway, so he told her not to worry. As a last resort, he called Chuck, and as suspected, he didn’t even answer the phone. Most days Chuck slept ‘til noon. Today appeared to be no exception.

By eleven, the strain of having to do everything on his own, on an uncharacteristically busy Tuesday morning, with more people vying for his attention than he had fingers to count with, was adding up to one hell of a headache. There was enough of a lull that he was able to sneak into the back for a few minutes to down some Advil and quickly check his messages. Chuck had phoned him back, and suspecting that Dean calling him before noon on a Tuesday meant he needed an extra hand, said he’d be in by twelve thirty. Dean heaved a sigh of relief and rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve some of the tension that had built up. Taking a deep breath, he left the quiet refuge of the stock room for the once again bustling store front.

*

By the time Chuck showed up at 12:35, Dean’s stomach was close to eating itself. He grabbed Chuck by the shoulders when he arrived at the front desk, and uttering a quiet “thank you”, disappeared behind the curtain to finally eat his lunch. Curious to see if his internet friend had responded, he ate his lunch by the computer in the office. When he checked his e-mail lo and behold, sitting patiently in his inbox was an e-mail from Thursday.  
\--

Date                                      From                     Subject   
**Tuesday Mar 11, 2014    angelofthurs...  (no subject)**  
9:17 am

I'm sorry to hear that your evening was a disappointment. Coincidentally, my night wasn't great either. I don't believe that anything you said could have been that despicable, as I don’t suspect you’re a malicious person. Whatever it was, it was likely deserved. Try not to beat yourself up about it.

I, on the other hand, have very little talent in conversing with people. It’s technically part of my job, but I’ve never been particularly good at it. Oftentimes I will say something to someone and not realize until much later that it was tactless or insensitive. My brother is usually the one to tell me. He’s far better at reading people than I.   
  
I'm glad our correspondence holds some comfort for you. It does for me as well. Despite knowing next to nothing about you, I sometimes feel as if we have been friends for years. I hope you share this sentiment, and I hope your breakfast was appropriately greasy.        
                                              
Sincerely,  
Thursday.      
  
Ps: Do you think we should meet?

\--

Dean stared at the words on the screen. He blinked once. Twice. They were still there. They weren’t going away. He didn’t imagine it. Thursday did in fact just propose they meet.

Face to face.

In person.

That did just happen.

He stared at the words for another moment, letting the full weight of them sink in.

‘ _Do you think we should meet?’_

His no longer empty stomach threatened to upheave its contents.

This was never supposed to go this far. This was just a casual, text-based relationship. This was the product of a stupid, drunken dare.

So why did Dean feel an overwhelming urge to hit reply and type “god yes please let’s” and set up a date and finally have a face to put to the sometimes overly-literal, witty, pleasant and intelligent e-mails.

Running right alongside that feeling was a stampede of anxiety and doubt. What if they did meet and he wasn’t what Dean was expecting. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t spent a bit of time wondering what Thursday might look like. But he hadn’t really formed an image in his mind.

On the flipside, what if Dean wasn’t what Thursday was expecting. What if they met, and couldn’t think of a single thing to say, and the whole situation just dove headfirst into a sea of awkwardness and disappointment. Their safe, easy, anonymous friendship would be destroyed.

Before he let his mind run completely away with him, Dean closed off the browser and shut down the computer. He leaned forward and rested his head against the cool wooden surface of the desk.

_What are we even doing?_

He lifted his head to check the time on his watch; it wasn't yet one o’clock.  He dug his phone out of his pocket, punching in Charlie's number in hopes of catching her before her appointment.

The phone rang as he drummed his fingers on the desk anxiously.

_C'mon Charlie pick up..._

"Hey, Dean. Are you surviving?" Charlie’s bright voice came down the line.

"Charlie I need to talk to you." Dean said hurriedly.

"What is it? What happened?” She sounded worried, no doubt assuming the worst.

Dean swallowed thickly. He hoped Charlie would have a solution or at least some sage advice on how to deal with this disaster, "Thursday wants to meet."

There was a short pause, and then he heard her sigh on the other end of the line. "That's it?"

Dean scoffed, affronted. " _That's it?_ " He breathed in deeply and stood, pacing the floor of his office. "Charlie, some guy I don't even know, who I met in a random freaking chat room two months ago and for some reason kept in contact with _wants to meet me_."

There was silence from the other end. Contemplative silence, hopefully.

He leaned against the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose, headache returning full force.

"Face to face, Charlie," he emphasized when she said nothing. “In person. What am I supposed to do with that?”

"Yeah well, what did you expect, Dean? Did you think this would just remain some weird, anonymous internet thing forever?" Her tone was less than sympathetic – not what he had been banking on at all.

"Can you not see that I'm freaking out here?" Dean spluttered as he resumed pacing back and forth across the small room.

"Dean, I get it." She sounded a bit more sympathetic now. "But you don't need to be. Just meet the guy! What’s the worst that could happen?"

Dean had been adamantly trying to avoid that train of thought. "I dunno Charlie..."

"Then don't," she conceded, voice flat and objective. "Go ahead. Wimp out and pass up a great opportunity."

"Opportunity for what?" Dean stopped pacing and leaned on the door frame.

Another pause.

“Charlie…” Dean prompted.

“Look, I know you’re seeing Bela…” She began tentatively.

“ _Charlie_.” This time it was a warning.

“Just hear me out. You’re not... happy, Dean.” Charlie said, as delicately as she could. “At least not as happy as you couldbe. As you _deserve_ to be.”

Dean always thought he was getting the better deal being with Bela. She was smart and beautiful and ambitious. He was just an average Joe who had never gone to college, never traveled the world. He had little to offer her. Charlie had always said _Bela_ didn’t deserve _him_. He never understood why.

“And you think meeting this guy is gonna fix that?”

“Well, let me put it this way,” Charlie seemed to be treading lightly, not wanting to upset him, but Dean knew that whatever she was going to say was probably spot on. And that it was likely on the same train of thought he’d been avoiding for a month. He wasn’t ready to admit to anything.

“The few times I’ve seen you really, genuinely happy in the last six months, where your eyes light up and you plaster on that dumb goofy grin –“

“I don’t do that!” Dean interjected; face growing hot even though no one could actually see him.

“Don’t interrupt me and yes, you do, I’ll bring you a mirror next time you do it.” She continued, “It’s when you’re talking about Sam, or you’ve just got an e-mail from your mystery guy.”

“Charlie…” Dean began his weak protest. “I can’t. Not yet, anyway. It wouldn’t feel right.”

“If you’re holding back because of _her_ …” Charlie began, determined.

Charlie never really took to Bela. She called her superficial, high-maintenance and a spoiled brat dependent on her trust fund. When her opinions on this matter had come out during a heated argument a week after they’d begun dating, Dean went nearly four days without speaking to Charlie before he finally broke the silence and called her. Lately, however, he was finding it a bit difficult to deny Charlie was right. At least the high-maintenance part; Bela didn’t have a trust fund. Just a sizeable inheritance and ownership of the museum coming to her whenever her uncle passed away.

“I’m not,” Dean stated, not being completely honest. Even if this thing with Bela wasn’t going exceedingly well, he wasn’t about to cheat on her. He slumped against the wall and dragged a hand down his face, rubbing briefly at his temples where pain was still ricocheting around his skull. “I just… I have to get back to work. Sorry for getting all worked up.”

“Dean.” Charlie squeezed in one last piece of advice. “If you want to see him, go see him. You don’t have to commit to anything, just… don’t hold yourself back.”

With that, the line went dead and Dean was left leaning against the wall of his office, staring at his phone with a lot of things to think about.

*

Later that evening, Dean received a call from his brother as he was lounging on the couch and watching some ridiculous TV show about rednecks or ducks or something and trying to get his mind off Thursday’s last e-mail and what he was going to do about Bela.

“What’s this I hear about some big chain bookstore opening down the street?” Sam sounded concerned but Dean refused to buy into everyone’s worrying.

“Whatever,” he began, nonchalantly. “It’s not a big deal. They’re not gonna put us out of business.”

“I dunno, Dean…” Sam wasn’t convinced. “I was looking into their history and just about every time they open a new branch, some mom-and-pop store goes under.”

Dean bristled. This was nothing he hadn’t heard before. “Sam, it’ll be fine. Our customers are loyal.”

He could almost hear the sad, patronizing smile his brother was no doubt wearing. “Well, I hope so.”

A new topic was in order. “How’s Jess? And my nephew?”

“Henry’s great, he misses you. Jess is doing good.” There was a slight upturn to the end of his words, like it was a question, and he paused. “…That’s actually why I was calling.” Another pause.

Dean waited for Sam to elaborate. “Okay…”

“Jess is pregnant.” The excitement in his brother’s voice was contagious and for a moment Dean forgot all about the coming of the bookpocalypse.

“How far along?” Dean sat up straight, quickly filling to the brim with delight.

“It’s been about two months,” Sam replied, bright grin evident even over the phone.

“Is Jess there?” Dean wanted to extend his congratulations.

“She’s at a doctor’s appointment. She’s probably gonna kill me for telling you without her.” Sam chuckled, voice taut with emotion.

“Good luck,” Dean laughed along. “When she gets back have her call me and I’ll pretend to be surprised.”

Sam laughed harder, which gave way to a contented sigh. “I’m really, really happy Dean.”

“Good,” Dean beamed at the picture on the coffee table of his brother with Jess and Henry at Yellowstone last summer, chest overflowing with warmth and love. “I’m happy too.”

He felt the warmth start leaking from his tear ducts and quickly said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

They said their goodbyes and Dean spent a good few minutes lying on the couch with a permanent smile trying to wrangle his emotions.

*

Dean had not yet responded to Thursday’s e-mail. In fact he hadn’t so much as opened his laptop for the past few days. He had yet to decide on an answer to _the question_ , and besides, he had bigger fish to fry.

When he arrived at the store Monday morning, Charlie was already there, holding a flyer that had stuck to her shoe on her way to work. As soon as he unlocked the door she thrust the boot-marked piece of neon green paper at his chest.

“Look at this!” she hissed, and then turned and stalked off to the back room muttering, “Those bastards think they can get to us…”

The flyer read in bold black print: “ **GARRISON BOOKS ONE WEEK GRANDE OPENING BEGINS MONDAY APRIL 28TH – 30% OFF EVERYTHING – FREE COFFEE BEFORE NOON** ”

Dean looked at the sign on his own door, the one he’d posted himself just last week that read: “ **We will be closed from April 30 th to May 3rd. We apologize for any inconvenience**.” He closed the store at that time every year to trek up to Buffalo for Sam’s birthday, May 2nd.

It had to be a coincidence. There was no way that Garrison could have known that Dean’s store would be closed that week, leaving all his regular customers free to traverse the aisles of the cheap chain store, sipping free coffee and receiving a hefty discount for their troubles… Unless a certain CFO had come back to snoop around when Dean wasn’t there. The thought made his blood boil, ramping up his determination.

Charlie reappeared from the back, still fuming. “Isn’t that just too perfect?” She snatched the flyer back, crumpling it into a ball and tossing it in the general vicinity of the cash desk. “We’ll be closed, so they can just swoop in and take all our customers!”

Dean breathed in deep to clear his own head and placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “Charlie, relax. It’s not for another month. All we can do right now is make sure that our customers are happy and intent on returning.” He clapped her on the shoulder and headed to the back himself to sort through the boxes of new inventory they’d received last night. It was time to start forming a battle strategy.


	5. The War Begins

Opening day was not far. It was April 25th. Dean was packing for his yearly trek up to Buffalo, but he was feeling apprehensive about leaving the store at such a crucial time. He’d decided he couldn’t risk closing the store completely and play right into the hands of Garrison. Charlie, Chuck and Kevin had all told him not to worry, that they would take care of the place and make sure everything was running smoothly. He trusted them, of course, but he wasn’t worried about that. He was worried that there would be no business for them to run. That the soulless Garrison Books would suck all their customers in with their discounts and their coffee shop and god knows what else they have hidden away in the depths of that commercial hell.

He had been staring at a balled-up black t-shirt, the only thing he’d managed to get into his suitcase as of yet, for several minutes when the front door buzzer sounded down the hall. He abandoned his sorry attempt at packing and padded down the hallway to see who it was.

He held down the button to speak into the receiver, “Yeah?”

“Dean. Buzz us in will you, it’s freezing out here.”

That was Sam’s voice. What was he doing here?

Dean hastily pressed the second button to open the lobby door, and then waited impatiently for the sound of the elevator arriving down the hall. He wrenched open his door with a little more force than necessary, startling Sam, Jess and Henry who had just arrived.

“What are you guys doing here?” Dean had not expected them to come down. He’d been talking to Sam more and more about the impending doom that was Garrison’s opening week, but as far as Sam and everyone else knew, he was still planning on heading to Buffalo in three days’ time.

He’d been looking forward to driving his car again, but this was a fantastic surprise nonetheless. He caught Sam in a great bear hug, then Jess, a bit gentler as she was pregnant after all, and still holding Henry. He held out his arms for his nephew who was promptly handed over.   
  
“Thank god.” Jess dropped her duffle by the door and made a bee-line for the couch where she flopped onto her back and began rubbing her tiny baby bump.

Dean chuckled, bouncing Henry on his hip like a pro. Sam grabbed Jess’ bag and closed the door behind him and dropping both bags to the floor beside the coat closet.

Dean couldn’t stop smiling. “You didn’t have to come down, man. Don’t you have some big case right now?”

Sam shrugged off his coat, smirking. “Nah, they’re still trying to negotiate a settlement but both sides are way too far apart. They can handle it without me for a few days.”

Dean led the way into the living room. Jess was already fast asleep on the couch. Sam gently lifted her legs and sat on the end of the couch, placing her feet in his lap and massaging her calves while Dean popped into the kitchen, returning with two beers in hand.

“Thanks.” Sam said, taking the bottle Dean held out. He added quieter, “I think Jess needed to get out of the house anyway.” He beamed at his unconscious pregnant wife and then, looking at Dean more seriously asked, “So what’s the plan? How do we take these guys down?”

Dean blinked for a moment, having forgotten all about Garrison. And the unfairly attractive Castiel Novak. And the family business going under. _Right. Action plan._

Truth is, he hadn’t really devised much of a counterattack. He wasn’t the best at political warfare.

“What do you think I should do?” He asked.

“Honestly, I think it’s time we went public.” Sam didn’t even hesitate. In an instant he was in lawyer mode. Dean could almost see the cogs turning in his head. “We need to get the press involved. We need this in the papers. We need supporters and we need everyone to see what this capitalist cash cow is doing to the little guy.”

Dean didn’t know how he felt about ‘little guy’ but he liked ‘capitalist cash cow’ so he agreed to go along with Sam’s proposal. “Okay, tell me what to do.”

*

On the eve of the new location’s grand opening, Castiel was sitting in a bar. He didn’t want to be here. He’d tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade his wayward brother to go to an actual restaurant for the preemptive celebration.

Gabriel had of course completely disregarded all of his arguments, and so his pleas of ‘we have to be at work at 6:00am tomorrow’, quickly became threats of ‘if you are not in a taxi by ten I am leaving you there’.

As such, it was now 9:37 and Castiel was eyeing the number of empty shot glasses in front of Gabriel’s seat at the bar. As per usual, he was trying to chat up the bartender. They’d seen her working here before. She hadlong brown hair pulled half up and hanging down her back in loose curls. She was pretty, but not really Castiel’s type. Gabriel didn’t seem to be _her_ type either, but she politely listened to whatever it was he was droning on about and nodded when appropriate. Castiel went back to ignoring his brother and watching the clock. The TV behind the bar was showing a late night news program, something local. He was about to drag his gaze away to check his watch again when a familiar face caught his eye. _Dean Winchester_.

He interrupted his brother and the disinterested bartender and asked her to turn up the volume.

She smiled curtly and aimed the remote at the small screen mounted on the wall. Subtitles popped up and the volume rose only marginally. It was better than nothing. Castiel could still make out the faint voice of the reporter standing next to Dean.

“We have here Dean Winchester, owner of Book Haven, just one of many independents threatened by the ominous chain store, Garrison Books which will be opening a new branch just down the street tomorrow morning.” Castiel raised an eyebrow, wondering what Dean was up to.

He stepped up to the mic. “This is not just about one store. This is about all the family businesses that have been crushed by the big guys swooping in and destroying the delicate ecosystem that is the heart of this city and the foundation upon which this country was built.”

He spoke with conviction, but the words sounded strange coming from him. Castiel didn’t doubt the man was smart, but _‘delicate ecosystem’_? He suspected he had some help with that speech. To the left of him was a tall, broad man with a mane of chestnut brown hair that swept the shoulders of his Armani suit jacket. Perhaps he hired a lawyer, although Castiel didn’t know any lawyers with hair that long.

Dean continued his speech, “I have met the C.F.O. of Garrison Books.”

 _What?_ Castiel was on high alert now. _What could he possibly have to say about me?_

“He doesn’t care about small businesses, he doesn’t care about the lives his company is crushing under their boot, and he clearly doesn’t care about anyone else knowing those facts because he told me those things himself.”

Castiel could feel his face burning hot with anger and embarrassment. Dean had twisted his words after _he_ was the one to confront Castiel at the party…. And to think, he’d even felt _bad_ after that sordid conversation.

As it were, he’d been stressed out the whole day prior to the party, finalizing contracts with builders and sponsors who just would not settle for his terms. Then Meg had come home and insisted he attend Crowley’s soiree, even though he was in no mood to socialize with anyone, much less her jerk boss. Seeing Dean there had been hard enough, knowing that Garrison was going to very soon ruin his life, and Castiel had thought it a damn shame, because Dean had been so nice to him and his niece and nephew.

Then, Dean found out about his position – presumably from someone else at the party – and confronted him and it just brought all the frustration to the surface. He knew he’d been insensitive and he knew Dean was coming from a place of fear and uncertainty and _he’d felt terrible_ afterward _._

And that was the most infuriating thing. _He_ regretted being insensitive when clearly Dean Winchester was just as bad.

He balled his hands into fists and held them tight to his thighs to keep from hurling one of the empty shot glasses at Dean’s stupid pretty face on the TV screen.

Even Gabriel had stopped flirting long enough to pay attention to the broadcast. Now he was looking at Castiel with a mixture of disbelief and wariness. He moved to place a hand on Castiel’s arm, but Castiel tugged it out of reach, swinging himself off the barstool in one fluid movement. He reached into the pocket of his trenchcoat, grabbed $50 from his wallet, slapped it on the counter and dragged Gabriel out of the bar by his lapel.

Only one thought occupied his mind: _Dean Winchester is going down_.

*

Garrison’s grand opening was a veritable success. Despite the efforts made by Dean and his followers, the first week’s sales were among the highest the company had ever seen.

“Gotta love New York City.” Gabriel had said to him after their first board meeting that following Monday, when the numbers were divulged. “Built on consumerism and still going strong.” Castiel had chosen not to comment, and Gabriel hadn’t bothered to interpret his silence, instead disappearing into the break room.

He needed to get out of the office. He let Gabriel know he’d be out for a late lunch, and within ten minutes he found himself sitting on a bench in Riverside Park. He liked to come here to people-watch. A young woman jogged by, ponytail whipping back and forth. A harried-looking mother pushed twin toddlers in a double-wide stroller, quietly scolding her boys who were throwing Cheetos at the pigeons on the path. An older man sat on the opposite bench, reading the paper and occasionally sipping at a thermos full of something warm. He could see the steam rising from the canister when he removed the lid. He wished now that he’d grabbed a coffee.

He closed his eyes. He heard the pigeons, squirrels in the tree behind him, ducks on the pond around the bend. He breathed in the cool spring air, allowing himself to relax for a fraction of a second before he was brought careening back to reality with the sound of a deep, rumbling laugh. His eyes snapped open and he surveyed the area. He was certain that laugh belonged to Dean Winchester, though he did wonder how he had so quickly recognized the voice of a man he’d only met twice.

Regardless, Dean was about the last person on the planet he wanted to see right now. The man in question rounded the bend in the path with a petite redhead. They were talking animatedly about something, though Castiel couldn’t hear what. Dean hadn’t spotted him, and he tried to make himself seem as small and imperceptible as possible.

He dropped his head and pretended to adjust the hem of his suit trousers. Thankfully, they walked on down the path without so much as a glance in his direction. When he could no longer make out Dean’s low tones or the girl’s bright, clear laugh, he rose from the bench and headed out of the park in the opposite direction.

He returned to the Garrison building to find Raphael and Gabriel waiting for him in his office, Raphael perched on the corner of Castiel’s desk and Gabriel, leaning against the far wall.

“Castiel,” Raphael pointed at the chair in front of the desk. _His_ chair. Castiel sat and the usual amount of dread and intimidation he felt whenever he found himself under Raphael’s scrutiny began to surface. He gripped the arms of his desk chair tightly.

“What was that Dean Winchester fiasco all about?” He could judge by Raphael’s tone that his cousin was not amused. “Why was he slandering you on public television?”

“That was a misunderstanding. De—Mr. Winchester misinterpreted something I said to him at a gathering we both attended last month.” He wanted to look away from Raphael’s stern gaze, but he wouldn’t allow his cousin the satisfaction of knowing that Castiel was uncomfortable.

“So it _is,_ in fact, slander?” Raphael cocked an eyebrow and Castiel became very confused, then quite aware of his cousin’s plan.

His grip on the arms of the chair tightened. “You’re not planning on taking legal action?”

“I don’t see why not. If what you say is true, then Mr Winchester has no reason to be spewing lies.” His eyes grew darker and more determined.

As angry as Castiel was with Dean, he couldn’t let them file a huge lawsuit against him for simply trying to keep his store afloat. Plus, it was hardly a fair playing field.

He knew his cousin, though, and Raphael wouldn’t listen to a sob story or a plea for mercy, so he tried the logical route. “I don’t think there’s really any need for that.”

“Oh?” Raphael challenged him. “And why not?” He stood up straight and folded his arms across his chest. He was plenty menacing without even trying, but when he actually intended to intimidate his opponents, like now, Raphael could be terrifying. Castiel felt a bead of sweat roll down his back and he wished his discomfort wasn’t so physically apparent. He pushed on, regardless.

“His company is about to go under. Why bother wasting company funds on a lengthy trial when he’s about to lose everything anyway? He’s going down regardless.” Raphael didn’t seem particularly convinced. He continued, “First week sales for this location are higher than the last three combined. Clearly, the people have made their decision.”

Gabriel finally piped up, much to Castiel’s relief. “Come on man, are we really gonna sue the pants off this guy when he’s just a few months away from eating cold cans of beans under the freeway?”

Castiel didn’t like that image. That pesky remorseful feeling was returning. He didn’t like that either. He needed to stay mad at Dean Winchester. It would be much easier to ignore the guilt that had been plaguing him of late if Dean continued to be horrible.

Raphael simply rolled his eyes and strode out of the room.

Castiel relaxed his grip on the chair and let the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding rush out of his lungs. He thanked Gabriel quietly as his older brother ambled past, and didn’t even complain when he ruffled Castiel’s hair.

He sat in his chair, staring at some generic, mass-produced painting of a lighthouse on the wall of his office, trying to convince himself that this was exactly the same as every other situation they’ve faced before wherein an independent bit it after they opened shop nearby. But it wasn’t. It became different the moment he set foot in Book Haven. He never once entered any of the other stores; never spoke to the people who worked there. People whose lives were probably ruined, or at least set back a fair bit, when Garrison swooped in and took all their business.

He had never given them a second thought, but now that he’d broken down that wall, had actually allowed himself to see the other side of this unfairly weighted war, he was finding it much harder to distance himself from it.

But he had a job to do. It wasn’t personal. It’s just business. He’s just the numbers man. He can’t be held accountable for their losses when he’s not the one making the decisions, right?

He stood up abruptly and walked over to the window. He looked down at the streets of the business district, at all the people in three-piece-suits milling about, carrying bags of take-out and cups of cheap coffee. It was always a calming sight for Castiel, like watching ants in an ant farm.

 _It’s not personal, it’s business,_ he recited to himself. _It’s not personal, it’s business._


	6. Avoiding the Problem

It was as if the universe was deliberately messing with him. Dean could admit that he was a bit harsh during that TV interview, but his entire life was at stake here and he’d vowed that he wouldn’t go down without a fight. But no matter how hard he tried to convince his conscience that he was doing the right thing, it wouldn’t let up, and he found himself experiencing odd pangs of guilt at random intervals throughout the day. These moments were made exponentially worse whenever he happened to run into Castiel Novak. He never actually made contact with him, but for weeks they’d been showing up at the same places at the same time and it was beginning to drive him mad.

Last Thursday it was the cafe on the corner of his street. He’d been re-reading his worn out copy of A Song of Ice and Fire at his favourite table when in walked Castiel and Dean nearly choked on his coffee. He immediately hid behind his book and waited for the guy to order his drink and leave. Thankfully, he didn’t stick around.

On Monday it was at the park. He was walking with Charlie, taking a quick break from the store, since it had been less busy than usual – no doubt a product of Garrison’s grand opening – and Chuck had told them both to get out because he couldn’t take the moping. They were rounding the corner past the pond when whom did he spot but Castiel Novak, not-so-inconspicuously bent over, fiddling with his dress pants. He’d grabbed Charlie’s arm and marched her along the path faster, desperate to avoid the awkward moment that it seemed Castiel was trying to avoid as well.

Now it was Friday. Dean had stopped at the grocery store nearest work on his way home to pick up some stuff he was low on at home. The lines were ridiculously long; the rush hour crowd probably running the same errands he was.

He was standing in one of the enormous lines and innocently looking over in the direction of the bakery, wondering if he should sacrifice the time he’d already been standing in line to go back and get some pie, when lo and behold, his eye was drawn by the appearance of a long, beige trench coat a few lanes over that could only belong to one person.

He cursed inwardly when the additional presence of blue eyes and dark, ruffled hair confirmed his fears. He couldn’t move. He turned back to face the cash register, praying to whoever was listening that Castiel wouldn’t see him and feel obliged to comment on the irony of them running into each other so frequently.

After twenty minutes of staring straight ahead and wishing he’d thought to get the pie beforehand, he chanced a glance in the trench coated man’s direction. He almost thought he saw a flicker of blue looking back at him, but he looked too fast and only caught it in his periphery. He elected to ignore it. He was next in line, anyway. He put his haul down on the conveyor belt counter and fished through his wallet for his credit card while the cashier rang him up. She read him the total and he handed her the card, wanting nothing more than to be out of the store and headed far away from Castiel Novak. He was caught off guard when she merely handed it back and said, “This is a cash only line.”

He nodded and pulled out his wallet again, only to remember that he gave his last $20 bill to Kevin for a taxi home the night before. He flashed the young girl an embarrassed smile, “Sorry, forgot I ran out. Card’s my only option, that alright?”

She was not impressed, nor were the thirty other people in line behind him. “Do you know what ‘cash only’ means?” asked the older gentleman beside him with a generous amount of condescension.

Dean felt his face grow hot. “I do, but unfortunately I don’t have any.”

The cashier gave an impatient sigh as another voice piped up from behind him. “Is everything alright, Dean?”

The blush already colouring Dean’s ears rushed to fill the rest of his face when he realized who the voice belonged to. He reluctantly turned to face the newcomer.

“Peachy,” he forced out through gritted teeth. Castiel looked as stone-faced and unreadable as ever.

He turned his expressionless blue eyes to the vastly annoyed faces of the cashier and waiting patrons before settling his intense gaze on Dean. “Do you need some money?”

Dean turned several shades redder. “I have money!” He realized he was raising his voice above the acceptable grocery store level. “It’s just all on this stupid plastic card,” he mumbled.

Castiel nodded, then turned to the cashier. “Hello,” he glanced at her nametag, “Emily. I understand that there are rules, and that this man did not follow them.”

Dean tried not to get defensive as he wondered what Castiel’s angle was.

“That said, we all just want to get home, right? What would you suppose is the fastest way to achieve that?” Castiel stared calmly at Emily, who stared back for a moment, then let out a defeated sigh and held out her hand for Dean’s card.

Dean was momentarily baffled. He slowly handed her the card, finding it hard to direct his eyes away from Castiel, who was smiling, albeit stiffly, at Dean and nodding once before walking out the door with his own bags.

His baffled stupor was interrupted by the cashier shoving a pen and a receipt at him and telling him to ‘sign here’. He scribbled his name and dashed out of the store with a deft apology to Emily, who rolled her eyes, and the people in line behind him.

Pulling his jacket a bit tighter around himself against the unseasonable chill in the air and wondering what would possess Castiel Novak to rush to his aide, he started off home.  

When he entered his apartment twenty minutes later, he called out to see if Bela had decided to stay the night. She’d been keeping to her own apartment more and more lately, but would drop in some nights, unannounced. He was greeted with silence. Guess tonight wasn’t one of those nights.

_Just as well_ , he thought. He’d been meaning to send another e-mail to Thursday. They hadn’t corresponded in weeks. It was beginning to worry Dean that Thursday had taken his silence as a flat out ‘no’ in regards to his offer to meet up, and had given up on talking to him altogether.

Dean’s mind had been a bit preoccupied with other things as well, and he just hadn’t had the time to sit down and think of what to say next. Now that he did, he couldn’t even figure out where to start.

He took the bags to the kitchen, relocating their contents to their respective shelves and cupboards. Grabbing his last cold beer from the fridge, he walked around the counter to his living room. He dropped onto the couch and stared at his closed laptop for a long minute. He still wasn’t sure he was ready to meet with Thursday, but it didn’t mean that they had to stop talking right?

He wasn’t going to let one awkward moment ruin their entire relationship. Determined, he set his bottle down on a ‘Hard Rock’ coaster, one of many that he and Sam had swiped when they were in Vegas two years ago for Sam’s stag, and opened his laptop. The familiar whirring sounds of technology waking up were making him impatient. He tapped out a rhythm with his fingers on the edge of the coffee table. Finally, the screen came alive and he clicked immediately on the web browser icon.

\---

To:                          Subject:  
angelofthursda..     It’s been a while…

Dear Thursday,

I’m sorry it’s been so long since I last contacted you. Some stuff was going on that I had to deal with. It’s still kind of going on, but it’s manageable now. There’s not much else I can tell you beyond that since we agreed not to go into specifics, but it’s nothing you need to worry about.

~~Not that you’d worry about me.~~

~~What am I even saying.~~

~~Why would you worry about me?~~

I don’t think I’m ready for us to meet face to face yet, but I can promise you that I won’t disappear for weeks again. I hope you still want to talk to me.

~~I missed this.~~

~~I missed you.~~

~~Oh god what’s wrong with me.~~

-Zeppelin

\---

After some extensive editing and another beer, Dean decided he was happy enough with his attempt at sounding normal and not letting on that he might actually be more invested in these interactions than he’d like to admit, and hit send.

He let out a weary sigh and allowed his head to drop back onto the couch cushion, glad to at least have accomplished this one task. It wasn’t long before his eyes slipped closed and he was asleep.

*

Castiel was more than surprised to find an e-mail from his recently absent pen pal sitting in his inbox the next morning. He’d thought for sure he’d scared him off by suggesting that they get together in person. It appeared though, that this was not the case. He smiled as he opened the e-mail, but as he read it, his delight gave way to concern. It sounded like something was wrong, but it also sounded fairly personal, and despite wanting very much to know what it was, he refused to pry. Instead, he focused on the positives: Zeppelin was back, he was still willing to talk to Castiel, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

He glanced at the tiny digital clock in the corner of his computer screen. He had about twenty minutes before he had to leave for work. Good a time as any to form a reply…

\---

To:                   Subject:  
zeppelin67...     Hello again.

I’m glad that whatever has been plaguing you is easier to manage now, and that you are still interested in continuing our correspondence.

~~If I scared you away by suggesting~~

~~I’m sorry I~~

I hope everything is alright, and that you are well.

I’m here if you need ~~me~~ anything.

~~I’ve missed your e-mails.~~

~~I missed~~

Sincerely,  
Thursday.

\---

It certainly wasn’t the lengthiest e-mail he’d ever sent Zeppelin, nor the most sincere. He _was_ glad that Zepp was back and hadn’t yet run for the hills. He just wished that he had the confidence to say what he really wanted to say. He still wanted to meet him, but Castiel was patient.

He could wait.

As days rolled by with similarly short e-mails being sent back and forth, overly polite and more impersonal than they’ve ever been, Castiel was finding it harder to retain the patience he claimed to possess. He wished they could go back to the comfortable camaraderie they seemed to share just a few weeks ago. Nevertheless, they both had other things to focus on. Zeppelin was still dealing with whatever it was that was wearing him down, and Castiel was dealing with the effects of Dean Winchester’s efforts to bring down Garrison.

One morning in late May, as Castiel and Gabriel were visiting the new location to make sure everything was running smoothly, a line of protesters with sandwich boards and signs began marching outside the doors. No doubt recruited by Dean and his giant, long-haired lackey. TV coverage of his ‘cause’ had continued throughout the entire month, reporters stationed outside Garrison and Book Haven almost daily, all vying for the story of the hardworking, small businessman being cheated and stomped out by the big, bad business.

The taller man’s presence in these media appearances had been sporadic. He’d disappeared for a few weeks only to return right before the protestors set up shop outside their doors. Castiel wondered who he was. He was fairly certain now that he was a lawyer, probably in a PR firm. But when he and Dean interacted, they seemed to be very close. Like family. There wasn’t much of a resemblance, but Castiel supposed they could be related. The only other option that crossed his mind was …. _boyfriend?_ but Castiel was sure he’d seen Dean with a beautiful, blonde woman at Crowley’s benefit.

The only thing that baffled Castiel more than this unknown man’s involvement in this whole debacle, was why he cared so much to begin with. Why _did_ he care what this man was to Dean? He may have been giving him some PR advice, but it wasn’t going to work. The unfortunate fact of the matter was that eventually, as with all other independents they’d taken out, Book Haven would one day cease to exist.

The protestors were loud and vociferous, certainly, and _might_ sway the public in their favour temporarily, but when it came down to it, people would rather save money than stick to their morals, and that’s where Garrison won.

Gabriel didn’t seem to be bothered by them. He was humming along with their uninspired chants and smirking as he sipped his mocha. When Castiel rolled his eyes and sighed, he patted him on the back and headed upstairs to the management office.

*

To:                       Subject:  
angelofthurs…   (no subject)

I have no idea what I’m doing. This whole… thing… is becoming ridiculous. I don’t know what else to do because nothing I’ve done seems to be enough and I just—

\---

Dean stopped typing when he noticed a little bubble pop up in the corner of his browser.

[AngelofThursday _is online_ ]

He froze, hands hovering just above the keyboard. Does that mean… Dean could talk to him in real time? His question was answered when another, smaller window opened, revealing an instant message from Thursday:

**AngelofThursday:** Hello. I had a feeling you’d be online now.                                                                   _8:40pm_

Dean slowly clicked on the text box at the bottom of the window and typed a reply.

**Zeppelin67:** Hey.                                                                                                                                      _8:40pm_

_Smooth, Dean-o._ He sighed and dragged a hand down his face and waited.

**AngelofThursday:** How are you?                                                                                                                _8:41pm_

Dean thought about what he was just typing in that e-mail. What could he say without giving anything away?

**Zeppelin67:** I feel like I’m fighting a losing battle. This… problem… isn’t getting better, if anything it’s  
     getting worse. But it’s nothing health-related so, y’know, nothing to worry about. Nevermind. How  
     are you?                                                                                                                                                    _8:42pm_

**AngelofThursday:** I’m alright…                                                                                                                 _8:42pm_

**AngelofThursday:** I must ask, is there anything I can do?                                                                          _8:42pm_

Dean wanted to tell him everything, just to have someone to vent to now that Sam had once again returned to Buffalo to take care of Jess, and Bela had left on a sudden business trip to Thailand. They had an agreement though.

**Zeppelin67:** Not much you can do without me telling you everything and isn’t that against the rules? It’s just a work thing. A really big work thing.                                                                                                                                                              _8:43pm_

**AngelofThursday:** I suppose we did say no specifics. All I can really say, then, is keep fighting. Keep  
   fighting until something gives and don’t give in.                                                                                          _8:44pm_

Dean agreed wholeheartedly with Thursday’s advice. He’d vowed to keep his store afloat and he wasn’t about to wave that white flag. He was glad they were on the same wavelength.

**Zeppelin67:** I don’t intend to. I will keep fighting. I may be losing now but that doesn’t mean the  
     situation won’t change right?                                                                                                                      _8:45pm_

**AngelofThursday:** Absolutely. I really do hope this ends well for you, my friend. And I’m glad we were  
     able to reconnect… I missed talking to you, even if it was only via e-mail.                                                   _8:47pm_

Dean felt a strange warmth radiating from his core. Thursday _missed_ _him_. The evidence was there, quite literally in black and white on the screen. Dean would be lying if he said he didn’t feel the same. Maybe he should just bite the bullet and tell him. He was too old to be embarrassed about shit like this anyway.

**Zeppelin67:** I missed it too. Sorry again that it took so long for me to get back to you.                               _8:48pm_

Okay, so he was clearly still chicken enough to substitute ‘it’ in place of what he really wanted to say.

**AngelofThursday:** Please, don’t apologize. I know that suggesting what I did was perhaps too  
     forward of me, but there’s no rush. Honestly, I would be happy just having these  
     conversations, if that’s as far as you ever want this to go.                                                                            _8:49pm_

It felt like Dean’s heart was dropping down to his stomach. He hadn’t meant to give Thursday that impression. That’s not what he wanted at all. The Garrison situation at hand, and the increasingly wearisome fact that he was still tied to Bela, were just making it hard for him to accept that offer at present. He decided Thursday should know that, at least.

**Zeppelin67:** It’s hard to explain. I _do_ want to meet you. Eventually. My life is complicated right now,      
     and I need to sort out some things before I feel I can do this. Just know that I’m not going anywhere.  
     I’m still here. Even if this is all I can offer right now.                                                                                     _8:51pm_

Dean felt like a high school cliché. ‘ _My life is complicated’_. Good lord. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair and slumped against the corner of the couch. But at least he said _one_ of the things he wanted to say.

In an apartment on the other side of town, sitting in his office chair and gripping his mug of chamomile so tightly it could break, Castiel let out a long sigh of relief. He gingerly set the mug off to the side of the desk, gave Inias a quick scratch behind the ears when the cat jumped up into his lap, and typed a reply.

**AngelofThursday:** I’m glad to hear it. Well, not glad that your life is complicated. But please, take all  
     the time you need.

He held his breath, feeling like a teenager revealing a secret crush as he added:

     I’m here for you if you need me.                                                                                                                   _8:52pm_

Castiel waited with bated breath for a reply, cursing his complete lack of sense in becoming so dependent on this man’s presence in his life. He jumped when the whimsical chime sound alerted him to Zeppelin’s reply.

**Zeppelin67:** Thanks, Thursday. Really. I’m gonna turn in for the night. Talk to you later?                            _8:55pm_

**AngelofThursday:** Definitely. Good night, dear friend.                                                                                 _8:56pm_

Castiel closed the browser and powered down his computer, feeling infinitely better about that area of his life. He clicked his tongue at Inias, who traipsed after him as he left the study and headed for the bedroom. Meg was sound asleep already, having had yet another day full of meetings and battles of will with her horrid boss.

He watched her sleep for a minute or two, and somehow found himself wondering why he was still with her. She was pleasant enough when she wanted to be, but Castiel had known for a while now that there was no spark left. Maybe there had been when they’d first met, but that was over a year ago. He was reminded of what Gabriel had said to him several months ago, and he was finally beginning to realize that he may have been right. He’d have to find some way to talk to her about all this.

Castiel quietly changed out of his work clothes and into the well-worn, blue and white stripped pajamas his uncle Uriel had given him for Christmas several years ago. Grabbing a pillow from the bed, and the oversized fleece throw from the armchair in the corner, he left to go get settled on the couch with Inias.


	7. Accepting the Inevitable

“So this stranger says he wants to meet you?” Benny’s southern Louisiana drawl was laced with skepticism and disbelief.

It was a Monday morning, four weeks after the Garrison Books opened, and Dean was sitting in Ray’s Diner, devouring the breakfast special – two eggs, two pancakes, two strips of bacon and a whole lotta hashbrowns – and catching Benny up on his life for the past couple months. He hadn’t been able to set foot inside the diner since January, what with the owners’ family emergency resulting in the store being closed until the first week of March, and then the whole Garrison debacle taking up the rest of Dean’s free time. Benny had been following his story on the news, so he knew about the battle to save the bookstore, but Dean filled him in on the ‘behind the scenes’ version as well. Then, for some reason, he started to talk about Thursday.

He still hadn’t told Sam. He would soon, but so far Charlie was the only one he had to talk to about this and he realized that maybe he could use another perspective.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, expecting to get an earful about _internet safety_ or something equally ridiculous, considering Dean was 30 years old.

“Well, are you gonna meet him?” Benny stopped flipping sausages on the grill behind the counter to stare expectantly at Dean.

“Um,” he stuttered, “I-I don’t know. Yeah?” He laughed nervously. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Benny.” He jabbed his fork at the pile of hashbrowns on his plate.

“Look, brother,” Benny leveled his spatula at him. “If you want to meet the guy, just do it. Don’t think so hard.” Dean was only half-surprised that Benny was giving him exactly the same advice as Charlie.

“It just got so much _bigger_ than I ever expected it to.” Dean recalled his birthday, five months ago now. How did one chance conversation in a random chat room turn into… this? Whatever _this_ was. It was definitely something, though Dean couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Was it possible to be attracted to someone without ever having seen their face? Dean decided that he thought it was quite possible.

“So you like him, then?” Benny smirked at him with raised eyebrows.

Dean knew the tips of his ears were turning pink but he put on a lascivious grin, “What’s the matter Benny, are you jealous? Worried that he’ll take your place?” Benny rolled his eyes and flipped the bacon. “Nobody can cook like you, babe.” Dean winked and shoveled a forkful of bacon and eggs into his mouth, moaning appreciatively to bolster his point.

Benny just shook his head. “So you do.”

Dean chewed his food and wondered if it was too early to say yes.

*

It was another uneventful day at Book Haven. Their daily customer counts had gone down noticeably, and Kevin was reluctant to share with Dean the week’s sales figures compared to last year. They were down almost $2,400. Dean asked to see the sales report from the first week of May, and discovered that in the four weeks since Garrison had opened, their weekly total had already decreased by $1,800.

All the protests, the media coverage, it had all been for naught. Dean decided to wait until a few more weeks to make a decision. He could stick around and watch their sales plummet to record lows until Dean was the only employee left, working for free and living out of the store. Or he could finally accept defeat and say goodbye to what had felt, for decades, like a second home.

He couldn’t face that decision yet. He needed more time.

Dean opened the door to his apartment and immediately sensed that someone was present. He hung up his keys, kicked off his shoes and wandered into the living room. Sitting on the couch, hands nervously kneading a throw pillow, was Bela.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Thailand?” he asked her.

She jumped, as if she didn’t realize he’d come home. “I wasn’t in Thailand.” She looked nervous.

“Alright,” was all Dean could think of to say. He slowly crossed the room and sat down on the couch beside her. She inched away minutely, and Dean reigned in his instinct to comfort her.

“I don’t really know how to say this…” Bela started, folding her restless hands in her lap.

Dean itched to cover her hands with his own, but resisted. “Take your time.” He busied his hands with stacking the coasters on the coffee table.

“I... God, this is such a cliché,” she began, “I met someone.” Once she said the words, she seemed to relax, though this was no comfort to Dean.

“You met someone.” His brain was trying to comprehend exactly what it was she was telling him.

“Dean, I’m sorry. I truly am.” She sounded sincere, and her pretty jade eyes didn’t seem to be betraying any falsehood. But again, it was little comfort to Dean who was just now catching on.

“So you cheated on me.” Dean couldn’t tell if he was more surprised at the cheating or the fact that he wasn’t as angry as he felt he should be.

Bela seemed regretful, but relieved. “I hadn’t really meant for it to go this far,” she implored, “but you haven’t exactly been an active participant in this relationship lately.”

Dean was going to protest, but then he actually thought about it and he couldn’t deny that Bela was right. This hadn’t been working for a long time. He’d been too absorbed in his business falling apart and his rivalry with Castiel to pay her much attention. Then there were the e-mails to and from Thursday. Suddenly Dean felt like _he_ should be the one confessing to something. He held his tongue on that matter.

“You’re right.” He conceded.

Bela looked a bit surprised, like she didn’t expect him to give in that easily. “Right.” She smoothed her skirt across her legs. “Dean I know you’ve been busy with the store and everything, and please don’t think that’s why I did this. I do understand how important it is to you.” Her eyes were reddening with the first hint of sadness. “But I’m supposed to be important to you too. And I don’t think I am anymore.”

She stood, smoothing her skirt down again.

Dean stood as well, unsure of where to move. When Bela stepped forward for a hug he went without protest. They stood, embracing each other for a moment, Dean breathing in the last of her perfume that he imagined he’d ever smell in his apartment again. It was a sad thought, but he wasn’t sad.

Dean pulled back to catch her eye. “So this is it?” He brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face.

She nodded, smiling sadly and reaching up on tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Take care of yourself, Dean.” She picked her bag up off the coffee table and slung it over her shoulder, holding out her hand expectantly.

Dean shook her hand, replied “You too,” and walked her to the door.

After Bela left, Dean sat on the couch in silent contemplation for a long while.

*

Castiel’s day had started out on a high note. No early meetings meant he could take his time in the morning and really savour it, which for Castiel meant listening to at least one symphony in its entirety and reading the paper cover to cover while he slowly sipped at his latte. He relished these mornings, and he only ever got to experience them on the very rare occasion that Meg was out of town. She’d been invited to a three day publishing conference in Michigan which had started Saturday, and she wouldn’t be back until much later that night.

Gabriel had seized that opportunity to insist he come over for dinner, which more than likely would end with both of them imbibing copious amount of alcohol, despite it being a weekday. Strangely enough, he was even looking forward to that.

Right now, though, he’d rather be anywhere than the board room, surrounded by investors and planning the opening of yet another branch. They decided that because their newest location was doing so well, and the profits had even exceeded that of their flagship store in Syracuse, that they’d open a second location in the city.

This should have been good news. Instead, Castiel was becoming less and less comfortable with the company’s penchant for destroying any small businesses in its path. He supposed he had Dean Winchester to thank for that.

He’d also been thinking more and more about said tall, green-eyed man. After he was inexplicably compelled to help him at the grocery store, it was as if he’d opened a door that he couldn’t close. Dean Winchester kept popping into his head at the most inconvenient times. Like now, when he was supposed to be breaking down the allocation of funds for the developers.

“Are you alright, son?” One of the elderly men sitting a few seats down the table broke through his thoughts. They were all watching him expectantly, all twelve members of the investors board. Staring at him, waiting. He jumped up from his seat and barely made it down the hall to the trash bin before the rich, hearty breakfast he’d had this morning made an unwelcome reappearance.

Gabe must have heard the retching from his office as he was immediately at Castiel’s side, gently rubbing his back and asking one of the shocked members of the board to grab him some moist towelettes from the break room down the hall.

“Jesus kid, what did you have for breakfast?” Gabriel was still Gabriel, even when comforting him.

“Eggs Benedict.” Castiel groaned, leaning against the wall beside the trash can. A middle-aged woman with dark brown hair and eyes handed Gabriel a few packets, for which he thanked her before hoisting Castiel up off the floor and directing him into his office. Gabe made sure Castiel was seated securely on the leather sofa before popping his head out the door and telling the board members the meeting would resume shortly.

Castiel leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. “My apologies, Gabriel. I thought I’d passed that stage of my life.”

Gabriel made a dismissive sound and pulled his desk chair over to face Castiel. “Here.” He held out a wet cloth which Castiel used to wipe his mouth. He wanted desperately to brush his teeth. Ever the mind-reader, Gabriel held out a small, green, chalky tablet. “It’s toothpaste. Just chew it and then swill it around some. Don’t swallow it though.” He placed the small trash bin from under his desk between them and then stood up. “I’ll be back in a sec. Just sit tight.”

He left the room while Castiel sloshed the strange foamy toothpaste around his mouth. Gabriel returned promptly with a glass of water and a bottle of antacid. He set them both on his desk and turned back to Castiel. “I’m gonna go finish up that meeting.” Castiel’s mouth was still full of toothpaste but Gabriel predicted what he was going to say, “Don’t worry about it, just relax for a bit and come back if you’re feeling better.”

Castiel gave him what he hoped was a grateful look and then Gabe was gone. He spit out the minty substance and rinsed his mouth with a sip of water. He drank half the glass and chased it with two of the antacids and then, remembering that Gabriel often napped on his couch, decided to try and lie down. This couch was far more comfortable than the one in his office, and he was asleep in minutes.

Two hours later, Gabriel was shaking him awake and Raphael was looming over them both. Castiel felt his stomach give an uneasy twinge and he bolted upright. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Raphael didn’t look half as mad as Castiel had expected him to. He merely shook his head and said, “Go home, Castiel.” He turned to Gabriel. “See that he gets into a taxi.”

Castiel wanted to protest, he could still stay and finish his work for the day, but one stern look from Raphael stopped him. He nodded and rose from the couch. Gabriel followed him to his office, where he gathered his briefcase and his lunch before heading to the elevator.

Once they were inside the glass and steel contraption, Gabriel asked him, “How’re you feeling, kid?”

Castiel considered the question. His stomach was now growling, having emptied itself completely a few hours ago, but otherwise, he felt alright. “I think I’m okay now. Just hungry.” Gabe nodded, but whether he was convinced or not, Castiel couldn’t tell. The elevator doors opened and they stepped into the lobby. Once outside, Gabriel hailed a taxi, gave the driver a $20 bill and Castiel’s address and said he’d call to check up on him after work.

The car pulled up outside Castiel’s apartment ten minutes later. He thanked the driver, and exited the car. Upon standing, he swayed a little, but he attributed it to the hunger and pressed on. Inside his apartment, he passed by the mirror hanging in the hallway. His face was pale and his lips were more chapped than usual. Even his eyes looked duller and the bags under them more pronounced.

No wonder Raphael sent him home. He looked like death warmed up. It was an instantaneous effect. As soon as he saw what he looked like, he felt it too. His muscles ached, his head ached, and he was exhausted.

 _That certainly came on fast._ He thought. He’d been sick before, naturally, but the signs were usually much clearer than they’d been this morning. Well, there hadn’t been any this morning.

Regardless, Castiel was most definitely sick. He understood now why Gabriel would say he’d call and check up on him even after he’d said he was okay.

Even Inias seemed reluctant to approach him. Just as well, because when Castiel bent down to remove his shoes, the pressure on his sinuses was painful enough to make his eyes water.

He slumped off toward the kitchen to make himself some herbal tea and a ham sandwich, removing his suit jacket and tie as he walked through the apartment. He got halfway through making the sandwich before he felt the nausea resurfacing and he had to stop. He settled for just drinking his tea and brought the cup through to his office, grabbing the throw off the back of the couch as he walked past. He had a sudden urge to message Zeppelin. He placed the mug of chamomile on his desk and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders before sitting in his oversized office chair. A chill ran across his back and he pulled the blanket tighter around himself.

As he waited for his computer to wake up, he sipped his tea, relaxing as it warmed him up inside and out. The screen popped up and he was reluctant to put the warm mug down, but eager to start typing. He placed the tea aside and began composing a new e-mail.


	8. The First Meeting

A few days later, Dean was lounging on his couch, beer in hand, re-runs of Doctor Sexy, MD on the TV. He was reading over Thursday’s latest e-mail. The guy was sick, apparently. Guess it was going around; Charlie had called in sick two days in a row now.

Thursday had also mentioned that he was eager to get better so he could try out this new café that had opened a few blocks from his apartment as it had looked promising when he’d walked past last week. That got Dean thinking.

Everyone that he’d told about Thursday had given him the same advice: just go meet the guy. Until now his excuse had always been Bela, but now that she was no longer a factor, what exactly was stopping him? Of course the fact that he still hadn’t told Sam yet didn’t sit well with him either, but he could deny no longer that finally seeing Thursday face to face, learning his name, seeing if the image in his head was anything like the real deal… it was something he definitely wanted to do.

His eyes hovered over the sign-off at the bottom of the e-mail.

 _Sincerely, Thursday._ Sincere seemed to be the best word to describe Thursday. Even if he’d never met him, Dean could somehow tell that everything Thursday put into his e-mails was completely honest. He could sense these things, and he was rarely wrong. Mind, Dean’s interpersonal interactions didn’t usually come from a computer screen, but he could still feel it nonetheless. This wasn’t just some scam. Who would spend months working out a complex persona just to scam someone anyway? This guy was legit. And he was quite possibly everything Dean needed right now.

Dean looked at the clock above the TV. Just past 6:30. Sam should be home by now.

He reached for his phone and quickly dialed Sam’s number. As the phone rang, Dean could feel the nervous butterflies convening in his stomach.

Jess picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hi Dean, how are you?” Caller ID was a wonderful invention, but it sometimes threw Dean off when people knew it was him calling before he said a single word.

“Hey Jess. I’m good. Really good, actually.” He was starting to grin like an idiot and it felt a little inappropriate, what with his split with Bela still pretty fresh, so he tamped it down.

Jess seemed pleasantly surprised. “Oh! That’s great.”

“Yeah, thanks.” He laughed nervously, “How are you?” He remembered his manners at the last second.

“Oh, you know. Sore. Tired.” Jess laughed and she did sound tired, “But I’m good. We’re good.”

“Awesome. Hey, is Sam around?” Dean asked, hoping to high hell that he was.

“Yeah sure, just a sec.” She put the phone down and moments later, Sam’s voice came through the receiver.

“Hey Dean, how ya holding up?”

“I’m fine Sam, but listen,” he took a deep breath, “there’s something important I have to tell you.”

There was an uncertain pause before Sam said, “Okay, shoot.”

Another deep breath. “So, remember on my birthday, how you made me go into that chat room?”

Sam huffed a laugh, short but amused, “Dean, I hardly remember anything from that night. I was pretty drunk.”

Dean rolled his eyes, even though Sam obviously couldn’t see it. “Yeah well anyway, I ended up talking to some guy for a few hours and he seemed alright, and then it was like two in the morning and we were both gonna sign off…” The rest of the sentence got stuck in his throat on the way out. He could hear himself talking and oh God, Sam was gonna think he’s crazy to have been talking to some stranger.

“And?” Sam prompted. No judgment detected yet… but Dean hadn’t even got to the good part yet.

“Well, long story short, we exchanged e-mail addresses and have been talking anonymously for the last five months.” It spilled out in the same breath, and he tried not to sound like he was hyperventilating as he awaited Sam’s response.

Sam wasn’t saying anything yet, and Dean could practically see the look on his face. The one he always had on when he was trying to understand something that made absolutely no sense.

“So…” Sam began. “You’ve had like… a secret pen pal since January?”

“Um… yeah?” Sam was being surprisingly calm about it, which was good. But he still hadn’t heard the whole story.

“Okay, so what?”

“Well, that’s not quite the end of the story.” Dean was stalling, giving his brother more time to reason out that Dean was crazy. “He wants to meet.”

“Oh.” Sam didn’t seem too fazed and it was annoying. “Do you want to meet him?”

“Um. I was thinking… maybe yes.” Dean offered hesitantly.

“Okay then.” Sam replied cooly.

“Okay?” Dean mimicked, a bit incredulously, “You’re not gonna tell me I’m insane, that I have no idea what I’m doing, that this guy could be an axe murderer or a card-carrying Republican or something?”

Sam sighed wearily. “Dean, you’re 30. You’re perfectly capable of making your own decisions.”

Dean could only open and close his mouth, unable to form a retort. Sam had a point, but that didn’t stop him from giving Dean crap about not eating healthy or exercising enough every single damn time he visited.

“Dean?” Sam prompted.

“Yeah, Sammy, I’m still here.”

“What did you think I was going to say? That you shouldn’t do it? You’ve been talking to the guy for five months. Just because you don’t know his name doesn’t mean you don’t know him at all, right?”

Dean hated when Sam got all logical and smart because it made him feel like an idiot for ever thinking that his brother would be anything but. “Yeah, I dunno man. I do want to meet him. He seems like a good guy.”

“Well you’re usually right about stuff like that so I don’t doubt that he is. But Dean, I gotta ask,” Sam’s tone was suddenly serious. “Was this the reason you and Bela split up?”

Dean was pretty sure it hadn’t helped, but no. There were other reasons. “Nah, man. I had a feeling that wasn’t going to last long anyway.”

“Okay so you weren’t like… cheating on her?” Sam’s seemed to be posing the question delicately.

“How the hell could I have been cheating on her with Thursday if I’ve never met the guy?” As soon as he asked the question, the answer swiftly popped into his head. “ _Oh my god._ Sammy, that’s – no.”

“Hey man, just asking.” Sam said with a laugh.

“You were just asking if I had – _no_ , Sam. Who even does that?” Dean felt dirty. Time for some brotherly payback. “Besides, why have internet sex when it’s _so much better_ in person?”

He grinned when Sam’s disgusted “thanks for that image, Dean” came through the receiver.

“Okay so… you’re cool with me meeting this guy?” Dean confirmed.

“Why wouldn’t I be? I just want you to be happy.” Dean could sense a chick flick moment approaching, even if it made his chest feel lighter to hear Sam say it, what kind of older brother would he be if he just let that slide?

“Alright Samantha. I’ll talk to you later. Say hi to Henry for me.”

“Will do. Jerk.”

“Bitch.” Dean hung up the received and lay back against the couch cushions. He felt a million times lighter, and the decision to finally set up a meeting with Thursday was that much clearer. He set about composing his reply immediately, for fear that time to think about it some more might change his mind.

\---

To                       Subject  
angelofthurs…   (no subject)

Hey Thursday,

Sorry to hear that you’re sick. Sounds like it’s going around.

I’m just gonna come out and say that I’ve been thinking about this, ~~maybe too much~~ , and if you’re still up for it, I would ~~love~~ like to meet you. You said you wanted to try that café when you were feeling better, why don’t we check it out together? ~~Is that too much like a date? Oh crap.~~

Or we can find something else, I’m not picky.

So whenever you’re feeling up to it, let me know.

I hope you feel better soon.

~~Like really soon~~

~~Before I lose my nerve~~

-Zeppelin.

\---

He glanced over it quickly to make sure he didn’t sound like a complete idiot and then hit send before he could find a reason not to.

*

Castiel had been feeling better when he got up that morning. He’d made himself some tea instead of his usual latte, and could finally look at his computer screen without feeling like his head was going to split open.

As he waited for the desktop to appear, he swiveled back and forth on his desk chair, breathing deeply through his miraculously clear nose and feeling optimistic about the leisurely workday ahead. It was Thursday, which meant he’d be leaving early to stop by the little Mediterranean bistro on his way home.

He had one meeting before noon, and it was just a brief mid-quarter progress meeting. All he had to do was total the profits for the company as a whole since the beginning of April, make a list of the top 50 stores and show that to the investors, and he could sit back and listen for the remainder of the meeting. He’d compiled all the data last night when the painkillers had kicked in enough for him to get some work done, all he had to do this morning was print off copies.

His computer was awake and ready. He plugged in a flash drive and dragged the documents he needed into the corresponding folder. They copied in the blink of an eye and he ejected the device. He still had plenty of time before he had to leave for work, and he hadn’t checked his e-mail since yesterday morning, so he opened the web browser and found the bookmark.

He was glad to see a response from Zeppelin. Their communications of late hadn’t been quite as fulfilling as they were _before_ , but he still enjoyed them nonetheless. He opened the e-mail and after reading the short message, felt his stomach twist uncomfortably.

Zeppelin wanted to meet. Castiel hadn’t thought it would happen so soon. He’d had said he’d needed more time; it had been little more than a week.

Castiel was nervous. He’d been the one to propose the meeting in the first place, but now that he was faced with the reality of it, he was anxious. He suddenly felt as though everything was riding on this one event, and he definitely possessed the capacity to screw it all up.

He stared at the message. Zeppelin had been ‘thinking about it for a while’, which probably meant that he was just as nervous as Castiel. He must be.

That assurance was the only thing keeping his anxiety at bay and stopping him from deleting the e-mail, shutting his computer down and forgetting he ever talked to Zeppelin.

That wasn’t possible anyway. He couldn’t forget him even if he tried. He was too important, too embedded in the web of things that made Castiel happy.

Thinking about all the strange and simplistic conversations he’d had with Zeppelin brought back all the warm feelings he associated with his friend.

His _anonymous_ friend. Perhaps it was time to throw out ‘anonymous’.

His curiosity and excitement renewed, he began to type a reply.

\---

To                       Subject  
zeppelin67...      Meeting

I would be very happy to meet you. I’m feeling much better today and I think I should be back up to 100% by the weekend. As for your suggestion, I think it’s a great idea. I’d love to, as you said, ‘check out’ the café with you. It’s on Jones St, just west of Bleecker. Café Vivaldi. Please let me know when you’re free.

I look forward to finally meeting you in person, and I hope you’re well in the meantime.

Sincerely, Thursday.

\---

It was another short letter, but now that the option of face-to-face communication was becoming a possibility, he was finding electronic communication far too impersonal. He craved human contact. And soon, hopefully, he would have it.

*

“This was a bad idea.” It was Saturday evening, and Castiel was half a block from the café they’d agreed to meet at. Already his hands were shaking.

“Why did I suggest this? I can’t do it.” He turned and began walking back to the subway station, but Gabriel grabbed him by the shoulders and whipped him around. He’d practically begged Gabe to come along “for emotional support” and the only way he’d conceded was for Castiel to agree to tell him _everything_ afterward.

“Yes you can. You agreed to meet the guy _._ You’re the one who suggested it in the first place. You’re gonna meet him.” Gabriel pushed him onward.

“I don’t even know his name. This is crazy. I’m going to meet someone who I may or may not have begun to develop strong feelings for,” he ignored Gabriel’s exaggerated eye roll, “ _and I don’t even know his name!”_ Castiel was becoming frantic, gripping Gabriel’s arm much tighter than necessary. Gabe sat him down on the nearest city bench.

“Breathe, man.” He patted Castiel on the back softly, “Look, if it’s any consolation, I don’t know the names of half the women I sleep with.”

Castiel turned his head to stare incredulously at his brother. He shook his head, “That doesn’t help me.” He ran a trembling hand through his hair, mussing it up even more than usual. “Gabriel, what if this is a huge mistake?”

The older brother sighed like he was explaining something to a small child for the fifth time. “It’s not. You want to meet him, he wants to meet you. You’re pretty sure he’s not a homicidal maniac, and you _do_ like him. Even if you don’t know his name.” Gabriel stood. “So get off your ass and go find out what it is.”

Castiel nodded and rose unsteadily to his feet. He took a deep breath.

“Just put one foot in front of the other, bro.” Gabriel prompted impatiently. Castiel grudgingly moved forward.

By the time they arrived outside the café, Castiel was nothing more than a bundle of nerves.

“Well, see you in the morning,” Gabriel saluted as he attempted to leave, but Castiel grabbed his arm in a vice grip again.

Gabe glanced down at the hand wrapped around his forearm pointedly. “You’re gonna have to let go, bud.”

“Would you – could you just go check for me?” Castiel smiled sheepishly, releasing Gabriel’s arm. “I don’t know why, I just need to be sure that he’s real.”

Gabe gave him a skeptical look, but climbed the three stairs to the entrance nonetheless. He peered in through the window, scanning patrons until he found someone who matched the vague description that his brother and this guy had agreed on.

Leather jacket, book. That must be him.

He peered a little more closely through the window, and when he was able to properly see the man’s face, he had to hold back a laugh. He was floored by the sheer ridiculous coincidence, but also a tad worried about what was in store for his little brother. This would be interesting.

“I see him.” Gabe smirked at his brother, taking some amusement from this unforeseen turn of events.

Castiel’s smile widened. “What does he look like?” He’d see soon enough, but he hadn’t yet worked up the courage to take another step closer to the door.

Gabriel let out a low whistle. “You have done well, young Skywalker.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, “I don’t understand that reference, but I assume it means something good.”

Gabe shuffled on the spot, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Well, he does remind me a bit of that pesky Dean Winchester, you know, from the little book store we destroyed.”

“Well, he is certainly an attractive man. But I’m not here to think about Dean Winchester.” Castiel fiddled with the hem of his dark blue button-down. The new knowledge that this man was likely to be drop-dead gorgeous, if he looked anything like Dean, did nothing to calm his nerves.

The sly smile on Gabriel’s face drew his attention from them momentarily, “What is it?”

“That might be a little difficult,” Gabriel quirked an eyebrow, “Considering it _is_ Dean Winchester.”

Everything around Castiel became muted. He stared at Gabriel for a moment, trying to determine if he was lying, before running up the three steps and peeking in the window himself.

Sure enough, there was Dean Winchester, looking incredible in a leather jacket and blue plaid button-down, and holding a well-worn copy of Kurt Vonnegut’s _Slaughterhouse Five_.

“Shit,” was all Castiel could conjure. Gabriel’s jaw dropped, he’d only heard Castiel curse on about three different occasions. Nevertheless, he couldn’t argue that it was an appropriate moment for it.

“What are you going to do?” he asked Castiel, who was still staring at Dean through the window.

Castiel tore his eyes away from the oblivious man. “I don’t know.”

*

Dean had arrived at Café Vivaldi a good twenty minutes earlier than the designated time of 7:00. He wanted to make sure he got there first and had plenty of time to calm himself down (or, more likely, amp up his nerves). He picked a table in the centre of the room, so he’d be noticeable.

When Thursday, ever prudent, had asked how he’d be able to identify Dean, Dean had said he’d be wearing a leather jacket (he almost always was). They needed another identifier for insurance, and so Dean suggested he bring a book. He’d always loved Vonnegut, so he said he’d bring his copy of _Slaughterhouse Five_.

Once that was decided, all that was left to do was wait. Saturday evening didn’t come soon enough, but then it was here, and Dean wished he had more time.

He was filled with a mixture of anxiety and excitement and it was probably hiking his blood pressure way higher than it should be. He’d be lucky if he didn’t have a coronary _before_ the guy showed up.

If and when he ever did show up. Thursday was late. It was ten past seven.

Dean had been sitting in the same spot for half an hour, and was on his second cup of coffee. He hoped Thursday was just running late and he hadn’t actually been stood up. That would be embarrassing.

He’d just started to read some of the book, thinking he may as well occupy himself, when the bell over the door sounded. He looked up sharply to see none other than Castiel Novak strolling into the café.

Dean hunched down and pulled the book closer to hide his face, feeling a bit foolish but hoping that Novak didn’t see him.

His hopes were dashed when Castiel came to stand in front of his table, clearing his throat and staring at Dean curiously over the edge of his book, hands thrust into the deep pockets of his oversized beige trench coat. He looked strangely nervous.

Dean reluctantly sat up straight and lowered his book-shield. Clearly, it had done him no good anyway. “What do you want?” he asked, sighing wearily.

Something like regret flashed through Castiel’s eyes before he dragged them away from Dean’s to stare at the table.

“Just saying ‘hello’, I suppose.” He rocked once on the balls of his feet and dug his hands further into his pockets, eyes glancing briefly to the chair sitting empty in front of him. “Are you expecting someone?”

Dean was reminded again of the fact that it was now a quarter past seven and Thursday was nowhere to be seen. “Yes.” Dean replied, regardless. Even if Thursday never showed, Dean wasn’t about to sit and drink coffee and swap idle chit-chat with Castiel Novak. Every time he saw his face or heard his name he was rudely reminded of his failure to keep his business afloat. Especially now that it looked like closing was an inevitability.

Kevin had advised him to make a decision sooner than later, and when he’d explained just how much profit they were losing, it seemed like Dean really only had one option. It wasn’t something he was keen on being reminded of every time Castiel’s apologetic gaze met his.

“He should be here any minute now.” He hoped to high hell he was right.

Castiel nodded, but didn’t take the hint, as Dean hoped. “Do you mind if I sit with you while you wait?”

Dean was opening his mouth to form a protest but Castiel looked oddly… sad? Despite all the frustration and loss this man had brought him, Dean’s annoyance melted away into indifference. He tossed a hand up in surrender. “Whatever,” he grumbled as he tried hard not to make eye contact with the strange, sad facsimile of the usually stoic man now taking the seat across the table.

They sat in awkward silence for a moment, while Castiel adjusted the folds of his trench coat and Dean idly flipped through the pages of his book.

“Vonnegut.” Castiel mused, breaking the silence and prompting Dean to raise his head to look at him.

Castiel was peering at the top of the open page, trying to make out the title, Dean assumed.

“Slaughterhouse Five.” Dean confirmed. “You read it?” He was only half interested, but half was a lot, considering he was trying not to care at all about the man who didn’t bat an eyelash at the prospect of Dean losing everything.

“No, I haven’t got around to it yet.” Castiel answered with an heir of reminiscence. “It was recommended to me, but I’ve been so busy with work…” he trailed off, casting a wary glance at Dean.

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Dean’s reply was laced with venom. “I’d imagine it’s pretty hard work putting indies out of business every other week.”

Castiel looked appropriately regretful. “Dean, I’ve told you, it wasn’t my intention.”

Dean bristled. He’d heard this pitch before, and it didn’t serve to ease his anger one bit. “Yeah? Well screw your intentions, Cas.” He had to work to keep his voice at a level that wouldn’t draw attention. “It’s happening, whether you ‘intended’ it or not. Guess which part of all that I actually give a damn about.”

He was flying now, adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream and urging him to get up and run, but he somehow remained in his seat, hands balled into fists and shaking at his sides. “I’ll give you a hint: it sure as hell ain’t _your_ _intentions_.”

To his credit, Castiel didn’t drop his gaze once through Dean’s tirade. Dean could see the tips of his ears had gone red, and his hands were fidgeting where they were folded on the table. “Dean,” he began softly, a much more contrite sound than Dean had been expecting.

“I truly am sorry for all that has transpired as a result of the company’s actions.” He looked like he really meant it too, which served to cool Dean off a little. He opened his mouth to say something, he hadn’t quite figured out what, exactly, but Castiel held up a hand to stop him, indicating he had something more to say.

“But in my defense, I have no control over their decisions.” He paused a moment before adding with a feeble shrug, “I’m just doing my job.”

Dean had been prepared to listen, but with that last line, that last _excuse_ … he couldn’t sit here and listen to this anymore. Castiel wasn’t apologizing for _his_ involvement at all.

“So, what? That’s supposed to make me feel better about the situation? About losing the store that’s been in my family for generations? About losing my only source of income in this shitty economy? Great. Thanks.” Dean had forgotten to heed the level of his voice, and was beginning to notice the eyes of the other patrons on them. He stood, not missing the completely broken look on that naively insensitive jerk’s face.

He pulled out his wallet, threw a twenty on the table, and picked up his book, storming out of the café without a single backward glance at Castiel Novak.

*

Castiel slumped against the door of his apartment as soon as it was closed. The night could not have gone worse. Zeppelin was Dean Winchester.

A man who no doubt despised Castiel more than ever now. He should have left off with the apology instead of trying to rid himself of fault, and then maybe he wouldn’t feel like banging his head repeatedly against the cool metal of the door right now.

Well, at least Dean didn’t take a swing at him, as angry as he was. So, Castiel supposed, it _could_ have gone worse.

Dean was angry, that much was certain. Castiel could understand perfectly why he would be. His business was going under, he was losing an important tie to his family, to his mother…

Of course. Castiel felt like the biggest asshole in the world right then. _Of course_ Dean would take it personally. On Castiel’s end, it’s just business. It’s not personal, he’s not singling anyone out or trying to shut anyone down, but for Dean, this store is his life.

He’d told him, the first day they met that he’d been working there almost his whole life. He’d probably been waiting for the day when he’d take over. It wasn’t just a business to Dean. It was the _family_ business. If he knew Zeppelin, and he liked to think he knew him pretty well, family was the most important thing to him. And Zeppelin was Dean. There was no separating the two anymore.

Castiel groaned wearily and pushed himself off the door and headed for the kitchen. He needed to clear his head. And he needed some tea.

In the kitchen, there was a note from Meg taped to the fridge. _Working late, don’t wait up._

Castiel was hardly surprised, but glad for the prolonged solitude. He needed time to think. He set about the kitchen, brewing his tea, and fixing himself a plate of leftover pad thai once he got wise to his stomach’s burgeoning plan to eat itself. He brought the plate and mug into his office with him with the intention of writing Zeppelin an e-mail.

For fifteen minutes, he stared at a blank message box, unable to think of a single thing to say. Dean still didn’t know that Castiel was the one he’d been talking to. He hadn’t been able to come out and say it then, and he still couldn’t say it now.

He closed the browser and gathered his tea and pad thai and sat on the couch, determined to forget about this night for at least a little while. He flicked on the TV and settled on a marathon of some medical drama he’d never seen before; anything to take his mind off of the look of pure loathing on Dean’s face when he’d left.

Partway through the second episode, he fell asleep on the couch, half-eaten pad thai sitting on the coffee table and Inias curled up at his feet.

*

Dean had opted to walk home from the café. Despite the chill that just kept hanging on well into the month of May, and despite it being a good twenty blocks from his apartment. He craved the cold air against his face, imagined it clearing his head and cooling off his temper. He refused to let himself feel bad for Castiel Novak, but the more he went over their conversation in his head, the more confused and irritated he became.

The guy had apologized. Yeah, he didn’t do a great job of it, and probably should have just left out the self-saving remarks, but he _did_ apologize. Dean could tell he was being sincere, and he certainly didn’t seem to be one who wasted words. But then why’d he have to go and ruin it?

Novak had a point, though. He is just the C.F.O. He couldn’t have had much of a hand in this decision, but it didn’t change the fact that because of Garrison, Dean was now going to have to close the store, and Charlie, Kevin, and Chuck were going to have to find new jobs. He knew he’d get buy. He could easily get work at the auto shop his dad used to own if he needed it, and he had some money saved up. He was more worried about the three of them than himself.

Dean was becoming less and less angry with Castiel the more he rationalized the situation. He was finally approaching his apartment, and all he’d managed to do was talk himself into submission. He had begrudgingly come to the conclusion that he may have overreacted. His temper was hard to reign in sometimes, especially when it concerned his family, and those three – Dean hated to use the word _employees_ – were his family.

The store was just a store. It may have been his mother’s store, which was why it hurt as much as it did to say he’d be closing it soon, but it was never a replacement for her. Mary Winchester could never be replaced. The real loss here would come from not being able to work with Charlie, Kevin, or Chuck every day.

Dean turned the key and let himself into his blessedly silent apartment. He tossed the book onto the side table near the door, hung up his jacket, and headed to the kitchen. He grabbed a beer from the fridge on his way to the living room and dropped wearily onto the couch. He stared at his laptop for a moment, wondering if he should e-mail Thursday and ask him why the hell he didn’t show.

He decided it could wait until tomorrow. Flicking on the TV, he channel surfed until he came across a Dr. Sexy marathon, and with a sleepy grin, kicked his feet up and settled in to watch a few episodes of his not-so-secret favourite show. He barely made it through one episode before he was nodding off, all thoughts of Thursday and the inescapable Castiel Novak washed from his mind.


	9. The Fallout

Dean woke up the next morning and immediately cursed himself for falling asleep on the couch. He rubbed his sore neck while he sat up and became aware of the throbbing pain in his lower back.

 _I’m getting too old for this,_ he chided as he gingerly pushed himself off the couch. He carried the half-drunk beer to the kitchen and poured it down the sink, turning on the coffee maker and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Something didn’t feel right.

Well, lots of things didn’t feel right, he did just sleep on a loveseat for seven and a half hours. All six feet of him squished into a five foot space. But that wasn’t it. Something wasn’t sitting well in his gut and he was pretty sure he knew what it was.

Why hadn’t Thursday been there last night? He had been the one to suggest the meeting in the first place; the least he could do was actually show up.

 _Maybe something happened,_ Dean mused. Thursday wouldn’t stand him up. There was no way. Something must have happened to him. Dean decided he would e-mail him on his lunch break. As it were, he was already running late for work. He hastily changed into some fresh clothes, filled a travel mug with coffee and grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter before dashing out the door.

When he arrived at the store, Charlie was already there, as usual, waiting for him to come and open the doors.

“Sorry, I know. I’m late.” Dean apologized as he dug his keys out of his pocket.

Charlie waved it off and grinned up at him. “So I’m guessing you had a good night then?”

Dean had of course told her of his plans the day before, knowing full well she’d kill him if he hadn’t. Now she was expecting all the juicy details, except there were none.

“He didn’t show.” He unlocked the door and ushered her inside the store.

Charlie’s eager smile faded and her jaw dropped in a spectacularly exaggerated display of shock. “He stood you up?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “No way,” he eyed Charlie, who was swiftly entering ‘outraged best friend’ mode. “He wouldn’t do that. I think something happened to him.” He moved to the cash desk to sort out the stack of returns from the previous day.

“What, like something bad?” She leaned against the counter, resting her chin in her hands.

Dean paused for a moment, contemplating all possibilities. He hoped it wasn’t anything bad, but he also hoped that _something_ had happened that would explain Thursday’s absence.

But what if he _had_ come…

“What if he showed up, took one look at me and left?” He hated to sound so insecure, but it was a possibility… maybe he just wasn’t this guy’s cup of tea.

Charlie didn’t believe that for a second. She scoffed. “Dude, have you _seen_ you?” She set about organizing the shelves in the adjacent Fantasy section. “You’re a total catch. There’s no way he’d bail on that face.” She reached up and patted the side of his face for emphasis.

Dean rolled his eyes again and shoved lightheartedly at her shoulder as he headed toward the office.

*

Around eleven, Kevin showed up unexpectedly. He popped his head into the back room where Dean was doing inventory. “Hey,” he said, startling Dean enough that he dropped the stack of X-Men comics he’d been holding. “Sorry…”

Dean stooped to pick up the books. “Hey Kev, what’s up?” He looked at the clock on the wall. “You’re not supposed to be in for another four hours.”

“I know,” Kevin started, “I wanted to see if you had made a decision yet, so I can get started on the paperwork as soon as possible.”

Dean felt that familiar twist in his stomach whenever he thought about the impending closure. “Not yet. Gimme a few days, okay?” He replied, subdued.

Kevin held up his hands in surrender. “Yeah man, totally. No rush.” He smiled softly at Dean, who returned the gesture. Kevin understood why this was a hard decision for him to make. He wouldn’t push anything.

“Thanks Kev.” Dean went back to counting the back issues that were going into storage.

Kevin didn’t show any sign of leaving right away. He hovered for a few seconds until Dean raised an eyebrow at him in a silent question.

“So what happened last night?”

Guess Charlie couldn’t keep a secret after all. “Nothing. He didn’t show.”

“He stood you up?” Kevin looked about as shocked as Charlie had that morning.

Dean was becoming more and more defensive of Thursday’s honor, even though the guy did technically stand him up. “He did not _stand me up,_ okay?” He was mostly just assuring Kevin.

Mostly. “Something must’ve happened to him.”

Kevin wasn’t as accepting of this rationale as Charlie. “Okay man, whatever you say.” With that he disappeared through the curtain and back into the store. “See you at three.” He called from beyond Dean’s line of sight.

Dean set the books down and glared at the clock. Only one more hour until he’d demand some answers himself.

*

To                        Subject  
angelofthur....     Last night.

I wanted to make sure that you were okay.

Are you?

You weren’t there last night, and I know I didn’t go to the wrong place, so what gives? If something really personal happened, I don’t expect you to tell me what it was…

But I need to know why you didn’t show because I’m kind of going a little crazy over here.

Something happened to me last night, something I wasn’t expecting. This guy who’s kinda been on the other side of this whole business crisis thing I’ve got going on showed up there and he said some shit that put me on edge and I just… it did not go well. When I got home I felt like an asshole. Fell asleep on the couch wondering why you didn’t show and why I had to be subjected to another infuriating conversation with this guy. It was probably for the best. Doubt he’ll ever try and speak to me again after last night.

Anyway, I hope that if anything did happen, it wasn’t serious. You don’t seem like the kind of person who would stand someone up for no reason.

I’m still here. Talk to me.

*

Castiel read and reread the e-mail from Zeppelin.

From _Dean_.

What was he going to say? Dean certainly did not suspect that Castiel was in fact Thursday. He couldn’t come clean yet. Even someone as socially inept as Castiel knew that it would be all kinds of awkward. Especially given their cold departure last night.

Castiel clicked ‘reply’ and positioned his fingers over the keyboard.

\---

To                     Subject  
zeppelin67@... RE: Last night.

Dear friend,

~~I was in Seattle. For a conference. I couldn’t get out of it.~~

~~I was overcome with another bout of the flu and~~

I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I can’t give you a proper reason right now. And I’m sorry my absence led to an unfortunate situation that caused you even more stress. I know you’ve been having a difficult time with this business problem of yours, and you certainly didn’t need more strain on top of all of that. I hope you can forgive me for not being there.

I think we should wait a bit before trying to meet again. I need time to deal with some unexpected issues that have cropped up.

In the meantime, I’m still here too.

Thursday

\---

Okay. That would have to do. He didn’t want to offer some obviously false lie. That reply may not have been entirely truthful – he _was_ there and any and all unpleasantness was entirely his fault – but nevertheless, he strongly suspected that had he told Dean who he was, that would have meant the end of their correspondence for good.

Dean’s message had been sent just a few moments ago, most likely during his lunch break.

He tried not to imagine Dean looking around the stock room, seeing all the books, reading notes posted in the break room and wondering what was going to happen to his friends when he closed up for good.

It used to be something apart from him. It was never Castiel’s decision, so how could he have stopped it? It hadn’t even been a consideration until he’d spent enough time with Dean to know that what was happening was not ‘just business’; Garrison was ruining someone’s life.

Now, knowing that he’d actually been talking to Dean anonymously for months, he was made aware of just how destructive this company could be. He resented his work more and more, every day that he had to sit at this computer and calculate the profits of store #251.

Castiel decided to take a long lunch. He needed some air and some time away from the office. He gathered his jacket and overcoat and headed out, shooting a quick text to Gabriel, letting him know that he wouldn’t be back before 1:30.

*

Dean was having brunch with Chuck and Charlie at Ray’s Diner. A week had passed since the failed meeting with Thursday, and he hadn’t replied to the e-mail Thursday had sent back. He’d been a bit miffed that Thursday had remained cryptic and hadn’t really given Dean a straight answer. Nor did he suggest that they set up another meeting.

As frustrating as all that was, Dean couldn’t find the time to care too much about it. He’d been occupied with making a major decision.

“We’re going to close.” Dean announced as Benny brought over a plate of beignets and some honey.

Chuck nodded solemnly, like he knew it was coming. Dean was pretty sure they all did. Kevin certainly did. When Dean had called him that morning to give him the heads up, he said he’d already started the paperwork several days ago. Dean had thanked him but it was a hollow sentiment. He’d hoped someone would try and talk him out of it, but he knew it was futile. They were no longer turning a profit. Charlie had offered to work some shifts for free but Dean was having none of that. It just wasn’t a feasible option anymore, staying open. So he’d made one of the hardest decisions of his life.

They were giving their customers a generous sale, 35-70% off everything, for the final two weeks, and then that would be it. Book Haven would cease to exist. Charlie, Chuck, Kevin… they’d all have to find new jobs. Dean would get by.

“Sorry to hear that, brother.” Benny clapped him on the shoulder before shoving off back to the kitchen.

Charlie slumped in her seat. “Guess I’m going back to working security for my cousin’s pawn shop.”

Dean’s heart ached. He was sad to think that he wouldn’t see her bright, happy face just about every day. They’d still see each other, but it wouldn’t be the same. He offered her a small consolatory smile, which she returned, but like his, it was hollow; a mere shadow of her usual glowing grin.

Chuck didn’t seem to be nearly as put off as the two of them. “Cheer up guys, it’ll all shake out.”

Dean didn’t see how, but he patted Chuck on the back anyway.

He turned his attention to the food and dug into his hashbrowns, smothering his misery with bacon grease and butter.

*

When Castiel finally reached his apartment that evening, it was after seven. He’d ended up staying late at work to help Gabriel plan a schematic for the newest edition to their genre list: Local Authors. He was surprised to see how many published authors were residing in or came from the surrounding area. There were a lot of books to arrange.

He went about his routine as he thought about the new list of books he planned to read. He took off his jacket, his tie, tossed his briefcase onto the bench in the foyer and headed to the kitchen to make some tea. He was greeted by yet another note from Meg; another late night.

They were becoming more and more frequent and, as much as Castiel enjoyed his solitude, he was starting to feel like she was avoiding the apartment. Most nights she didn’t come home until after he’d fallen asleep, and since she always rushed around in the morning with no time to spare, he felt like he hadn’t properly seen her in weeks.

He sighed and tossed the note in the trash bin beside the counter. He was dead tired and bone-weary but he would be sure to stay awake and wait for her tonight. He was probably just being paranoid, but he wanted to make sure that she wasn’t avoiding him because of something he’d done. He placed the box of chamomile and mint tea back in the cupboard with another long-suffering sigh and reached for the carton of peach flavoured black tea. He’d need some caffeine to wait her out.

*

When Meg did finally come home, it was after midnight. She looked exhausted and irritable and when she noticed that Castiel was sitting on the couch, third mug of tea in hand, blinking up at her patiently, she scoffed. “I told you, you didn’t have to wait up for me.”

Castiel placed his mug on the table. “I feel like we haven’t spoken in days. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Meg threw her jacket and giant black messenger bag onto the couch and stood with a hand on her hip. “I just saw you this morning. And I’m fine.” She stared pointedly at him.

Castiel nodded. “So you’re not angry with me?”

Meg’s blank expression didn’t even flicker. “No. Why would I be?”

Castiel shrugged, “I don’t know I-“

“Not like I’d be mad at you for sleepwalking. It’s not something you can control,” she cut him off abruptly, stony façade crumbling a little into hysteria.

“Or the fact that your damn cat leaves a ton of grey hairs on everything. Can’t control that either.”

Castiel was taken aback. He knew she hated Inias but he hadn’t had a sleepwalking episode in months.

“You knew both of those things when you moved in with me,” he reminded her. “What are you trying to say?”

Meg began forming a word but stopped. She chewed on her bottom lip, trying to think of what she wanted to say. She took one long, disparaging look at Castiel and said, “I think I’m going to move out.”

Cas had no clue what was happening. One moment Meg was standing before him, looking for all the world like she couldn’t be bothered to be there, and the next she was packing a bag and telling him she’d be staying at a hotel a few blocks away until she could get someone to come pick up her stuff.

She gave him a quick peck on the cheek where he sat in the same spot on the couch, and then she was gone.

He had no idea where that came from. Had she been unhappy the whole time? He thought she’d got used to Inias, or at the very least was able to tolerate him. He never thought she cared about the sleepwalking. She’d always said she didn’t. That she could ‘handle it’.

He had sensed that something was wrong lately but he didn’t expect to be so indifferently discarded. They’d been together for over a year. Castiel didn’t quite understand how they’d managed to keep it together for so long if all it took was a week of late nights and one innocent confrontation to have it all come tumbling down.

Inias jumped up onto Cas’ lap and startled him. He scratched behind the tabby’s ears as Inias purred contently, and he couldn’t imagine how anyone could hate such a sweet animal. He realized that Gabriel was right. Meg obviously wasn’t _it_ for him _._

Castiel was also starting to realize that there might be someone else already holding that title.

*

Dean pushed open the door of Book Haven for the last time, on the very last day of pack-up, with a heavy heart. Their final week of sales had been pretty busy. Tons of people from all over the city had come to say goodbye to the store, as they’d come several years ago to say their goodbyes to Mary Winchester. They’d sold out of most of their stock, save for a few titles scattered throughout the sections of the store. He and Charlie packed them up for donation, and had sent them off to the library.

Today was the last day he would have the keys to this place and he had but a few hours to ‘remove all personal belongings’ before the demo crew came in to start tearing the place apart. He tried not to think about it. The original, decades-old built in shelves that he had repaired himself over the years, the real hardwood floors that you couldn’t find anywhere else in the district, the free-standing check-out counter where he’d spent countless afternoons helping out his mom after school. All would be gone in a week.

Charlie had texted him earlier asking if he needed her help. He’d told her he was fine. He wanted some time alone with the place. Now he kind of wished she was here. It felt too empty. His grief bounced off the bare walls and empty shelves and he wanted to cry. Needed to.

Tears threatened to spill over but didn’t, hanging on for something that wasn’t going to happen. _This_ wasn’t going to magically un-happen. The reign of Book Haven had come to an end, and with it, Dean’s life as he once knew it.

Kevin had already got a job lined up in a bank across town. Summer was almost upon them and he’d have plenty of time to save up enough for his first year at MIT. Kid was a genius. He’d no doubt excel at a school like that, but Dean was going to miss him. Chuck had a job lined up at Garrison, of all places. Dean tried not to imagine it as a betrayal. Chuck needed a job to afford his apartment in between small dividends from the publishing house. He’d be in charge of an entire floor, and would be earning more than he did working for Dean. He was happy for him, if not a little miffed that it just added another thing to the list of all that Garrison Books had taken from him.

Charlie’s girlfriend got her a temporary job at one of the bars she tended frequently while she decided what she wanted to do. Charlie could easily go to MIT with Kevin, she was brilliant in her own right, but she said she could never leave her family behind.

She had hinted at starting tech classes at NYU in the fall, of which Dean was glad to hear. She wouldn’t have to go far, and he’d still see her on the weekends. His little family wouldn’t be completely torn apart. It just felt that way right now.

Dean began stacking bean bags by the front door. He’d probably have to call a cab and make a few trips, but he’d get it all out and into his apartment one way or another. He was planning on donating much of the furniture as well. He didn’t need another table and six chairs in his already cramped apartment.

He assembled the banker box he’d brought with him and began taking his stuff off the shelf behind the cash register. A box of Kleenex, a stash of really old comics that he’d been saving for when Henry grew up, and three of his own books that he kept at the store to read on his break sometimes all went into the box.

He stopped at the 5x7 frame holding the picture of a much younger Dean and Mary, both smiling toothy grins up at him from behind dusty glass.

He felt himself smiling back, but much more subdued. He was surprised when a teardrop fell onto the glass, slightly warping the image and dragging dust with it as it rolled down the surface.

He wiped at his eyes with the collar of his t-shirt, forgetting the Kleenex already in the banker box, and carefully placed the frame in with the rest of his possessions.

He shook himself off, trying to center his emotions. He didn’t have all day to stand around being sad. He had work to do.

*

Four hours, one quick call to Benny to borrow his pick-up, and two trips to his apartment and back later, Book Haven was empty of all Dean could safely remove. He had sort of managed to delineate one corner of his living room for stuff he was going to keep and another for the stuff he was going to donate. That was going to be another adventure; getting the dining set, computer desk, and break room appliances back _out_ of his apartment and into a donation truck.

Dean stood at the door, ready to go, but reluctant to leave. He took one last long look at the store. Tried to remember a time when it was bustling with people. A time when he had plenty of regular customers to talk to, and new ones to get to know. A time when he could barely reach the counter, and had to stand on an old wooden stool that his mother bought at a thrift store especially for him.

He looked at it now, cold and empty; completely devoid of his mother’s charm, of the familiar ambiance, of anything that suggested this place was once a well-loved landmark. He turned and left the store, closing the door behind him for the last time.


	10. What Remains

“He just… didn’t show up?”

Dean was on the phone with his brother. He hadn’t spoken to Sam in a while. He hadn’t wanted to talk about closing the store, or how he got – he refused to say ‘stood up’. How Thursday failed to make it to their coffee date.

Of course he’d told his brother when he’d made the decision to close, but he’d been on his way to work and didn’t have time to answer all of Sam’s questions about his emotional wellbeing. When Sam finally called _him_ several days after the last stack of chairs had been transported out of his apartment, he was a bit miffed that Dean hadn’t called him, but seemed to understand that he didn’t want to get into it. So, being the nosy younger brother that he is, he asked about Dean’s intended meeting with, as Sam put it, his ‘ _internet boyfriend’_.

That comment earned him an indignant scoff and a hang-up threat, but when Dean mentioned that it was a bust, Sam became uncharacteristically outraged on his behalf.

“He didn’t even like…try to contact you to tell you he wasn’t coming?”

“Well –“ Dean started weakly.

“And he didn’t even give you a reason when you asked him?” Sam pushed on.

“Sammy…” Dean sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

“Who does this guy think he is? Sounds like a bit of a dick to make plans and then not even give you a reason—“

“Sam!” Dean interjected loudly, effectively cutting off his brother’s tirade. “He’s not a dick, okay? More like the exact opposite.” He lay back on the couch, pillowing his head with his free hand as he stared at the ceiling, trying to stem the flow of nagging questions that still surrounded Thursday’s absence that night.

“I don’t know, Dean. Why didn’t he show then?” Sam was suspicious, but Dean was certain he had no reason to be. There wasn’t anything shifty about Thursday. There just wasn’t.

“I’m sure he had a reason and he just… doesn’t feel comfortable telling me.” Dean sat up and blew all the air out of his lungs. “It might sound stupid to you, but I know him well enough to know that.”

Sam sighed, resigned, on the other end of the line. “Okay. If you think this guy’s legit, then I trust your judgment.”

Dean smirked half-heartedly. “Thanks.”

There was a brief silence before Sam asked, “So, what are you going to do? Now that the store’s gone.”

Dean stared at his open laptop on the coffee table, screen black, a gateway to so many different things; friendship, creativity, perhaps a fresh start. “I’ve got no clue. But I’ll figure it out.” He clicked the mouse and the screen lit up, web browser front and centre, waiting.

“Yeah, I know you will.” Sam said confidently. There was some murmuring in the background on his end, and he swiftly added, “Sorry, gotta go. I’ve got a meeting. Call you later.”

Dean nodded, though Sam couldn’t see him. He was already becoming distracted with all the ideas flying around his head. Just as well.

“See ya Sammy.” He ended the call and tossed his phone onto the couch cushion beside him. He had work to do.  

*

Castiel stood in front of the empty retail space that was once Book Haven. He stared through the bare window at all the empty shelves. At the lackluster bones and structure that remained. There was no life now, it was a mere shell of what it had been for several decades; a staple in the community, a social hub, a sanctuary for booklovers. Though he knew on paper, he had nothing to do with this travesty, he couldn’t fully excuse himself from contributing to the utterly depressing sight before him.

He looked at the faded sign above the window; its intricately carved wooden letters, old paint worn thin by the wind and rain and sun. A sign so weathered above any other store would look tasteless and shabby, but somehow it fit with the aesthetic of the little shop that was. With _Dean’s_ store.

Castiel gritted his teeth and ripped himself away from the empty store and down the street toward the subway. He tried once again to remind himself that there was nothing he could have done. The sentiment rang flat and untrue, and so he tried not to think about it at all. That was even harder, with Dean constantly on his mind.

He was caught in the predicament of wanting something he knew he’d never have. Dean obviously couldn’t stand him, and now that he’d lost everything… Well, that was it. Game over. Castiel kicked at a half-crushed pop can that sat innocently in his path, his frustration stubbornly refusing to ebb even a little.

The only consolation – if it could be called such – was that Dean didn’t know that Castiel was also Thursday. He could still talk to him, even though doing so brought with the relief and joy, a new wave of guilt and regret that he couldn’t tamp down. He would have to tell him sooner or later, but he couldn’t bear to have Dean hate both versions of him. Even if he despised Castiel Novak, he still seemed to like Thursday, even after being ‘stood up’.

At least, he hoped he did. His last message remained unanswered.

He glanced at his watch. He was supposed to be meeting Gabriel for lunch, and his detour to the little bookstore had cost him enough time that he was officially running late. With something else to briefly occupy his mind, Castiel began to walk faster. If he got to the restaurant after his notoriously late older brother, he’d never hear the end of it.

*

“So he still doesn’t know it’s you?” Gabriel asked, clearly amused, between bites of his stuffed tortellini.

Castiel swallowed the mouthful of Hunan Kung Pao he’d been chewing. “No. I haven’t told him.” He shrugged at his brother’s incredulous expression.

“What am I supposed to say? By the way, I’m actually the person you despise most in this world, can we still be friends?” Castiel stabbed at his food, crossly, “He’d be done with me in an instant.”

Gabriel, for his part, looked sympathetic. He reached out and clasped Castiel’s shoulder. “Good luck with that one, bro.”

They ate in silence for a moment, and then Gabriel popped another question, “So what exactly happened with you and Meg?”

Castiel had been just about to shovel another forkful of noodles into his mouth, but the mention of his, he supposed now, ex-girlfriend, made him lose his appetite. He dropped the fork back into the bowl, lowering his head and sighing. “I don’t know. She just got tired of putting up a facade, I guess.”

He’d realized fairly soon after she’d left that night, and a co-worker, some tall blond hotshot named Brady, came to pick up her stuff the next day, that Meg hadn’t been _in_ the relationship for a while. Honestly, he was surprised it took her as long as it did to put an end to it. She hadn’t made any real effort in months. Castiel, stupidly, had thought she was just overworked, not that she already had one foot out the door.

“Well,” Gabriel leaned back in his seat, “Can’t say I didn’t see it coming. Though, I personally would have bet money that you’d be the one doing the dumping.”

Castiel shrugged again. “I wasn’t unhappy.” Not a total lie.

Gabriel scoffed, “You weren’t exactly sunshine and rainbows either.” He crooked an eyebrow, “At least not until you started talking to mystery boy. Then you perked right up.”

He grinned widely at Castiel’s disparaging glare. “Well Cas, you’re a free man. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

Castiel rolled his eyes exaggeratedly and continued eating. He supposed he was free, in some ways, though the Dean situation was still very much at the forefront of his mind. He wondered if it would be a better idea to make amends somehow for his involvement in the closure, before telling him the truth about his online identity.

By the end of his lunch, he’d come to the decision that he should, at the very least, try.

*

Dean was coughing up a lung. At least that’s what it felt like. He was doubled over the bathroom sink, clutching onto the rim for dear life while his legs threatened to give out from beneath him. His head felt like a giant ball of cotton that had been dunked in some slimy substance or other. He was borderline delirious, but of course when Charlie had called earlier to check up on him, he’d said he was fine, and no she needn’t come over.

Now he wished he’d told her the truth. He felt like shit. And he wanted someone to make him soup. His mother always made him soup when he was sick. Tomato with rice.

He craved it now, and wondered if Charlie would come and make him some if he called her back. Though it might be hard to ask while gasping for air _and_ trying to hack up his vital organs.

He got a short reprieve from the coughing and slowly, shakily lowered himself to the floor and leaned against the wall. The room was spinning. He couldn’t remember a time when he was this sick. He’d taken three Tylenol cold & flu tablets about an hour ago, but all they were doing was making him very sleepy and sapping his energy away in buckets.

He groaned and pushed himself up, swaying on unsteady legs toward the kitchen. He carefully filled a glass with water and took a few tentative sips, praying it stayed down. He was about to go faceplant on the couch with a box of Kleenex and a large plastic bowl when he heard the door buzzer.

Maybe Charlie saw through his bullshit and decided to come take care of him anyway.

He ambled over to the speaker panel just outside the kitchen. He held down the button to speak into the intercom.

“Yeah?” was all he managed to get out before he was seized by another coughing fit.

“Um… hello?” came a voice he didn’t recognize.

 _Not Charlie then,_ Dean thought disappointedly. “Who’s this?” Dean rasped out.

There was silence from the other end and Dean thought maybe whoever it was had called the wrong apartment and buggered off. But then the voice spoke again. “It’s Castiel.”

Dean’s sluggish brain couldn’t even muster enough energy to enter panic mode. He was too tired. “What do you want?”

Another pause. “Would you mind if I came up? It’s kind of awkward talking to a metal box.”

Dean didn’t even know if he wanted _Charlie_ to see him like this, let alone Mr. High and Mighty Castiel Novak. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m pretty sick.” As if he needed a backing point, a tickle in his nose compelled him to sneeze all over the com box. He gingerly patted it down with a tissue. “You get the picture.” He added.

“Yes, I heard… I wanted to see how you were doing.” Castiel replied.

“Well then you really don’t need to come up, because I’m f—“ his last word was cut off by another ragged coughing fit.

“You don’t sound fine.” God damn persistent son of a –

“Seriously man, just… I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself.” Dean was slumped against the wall, scarcely believing it himself, but determined that Castiel was _not_ coming up.

There was no reply. Dean waited several moments, waiting for some sort of surrender, or protest…. Nothing came. “Hello?”

A knock at his door startled him and he almost slipped off his feet. He padded the few feet down the hall as quickly as he could manage, bracing himself with one hand on the wall, and looked through the peep hole. Castiel Novak was standing on the other side of the door, looking mildly worried and holding… were those _flowers_?

Dean wrenched open the door with more force than he thought possible in his state. “How did you get up here?” he demanded.

Castiel glanced behind Dean into his apartment. “Someone was leaving and they let me in.”

“What do you want, Cas?” Dean surprised himself with the ease with which he’d settled on a nickname, and Castiel too, judging by the flicker of a question across his face.

“I told you. I wanted to see if you were alright.” Castiel’s impossibly blue eyes met his with no small measure of sincerity. Dean decided he was probably telling the truth, despite it not making any sense.

“Well, you’ve seen me. How do I look?” He held out his arms sarcastically. He was wrapped in a navy bathrobe, sweats and a black t-shirt underneath, bunches of Kleenex erupting from his pockets. And that was just his attire.

He didn’t even want to think about how pale and clammy and flushed his face was. He was at the same time boiling hot and freezing cold, and every so often a shiver ran through his entire body and all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep, which this man’s presence was currently preventing him from achieving.

“Not so good.” Castiel replied in earnest. He held up the bouquet of flowers; an assortment of white and yellow and orange blossoms in different shapes and sizes. When Dean didn’t reach for them, he shrugged and held them close to his own chest, “I didn’t know what to bring. Flowers seemed like an appropriate get-well offering…”

Dean sighed wearily. The guy was being nice. He should at least take the damn flowers. He held out a hand for them and waited impatiently.

Castiel caught his eye again and hastily pressed the wrapped stems into Dean’s waiting palm. “Sorry. I’m not very good at this.”

“At what?” Dean crooked an eyebrow.

“Um. Social interaction, I suppose.” Castiel shifted awkwardly, still standing in the corridor.

One of Dean’s neighbours stepped out of their apartment and began eyeing them curiously. Dean nodded politely at the older woman and then, rolling his eyes and conceding defeat, ushered Castiel inside.

“Dean,” Castiel began, “I wanted to apologize. For everything that happened.”

Dean was far too exhausted to have this conversation. He nodded once and slumped back to the kitchen on unsteady feet. He fished around in his cupboards for an old glass vase that belonged to his mother. Once located, he filled it halfway with water and un-wrapped the flowers, dropping them into the vase as Castiel hovered awkwardly in the archway. Dean nearly lost his footing when his knees buckled and he had to brace himself on the counter. When he managed to straighten up again, Castiel was directly behind him, hand hovering near his elbow.

“You should sit down.” Castiel said, soft but resolute. “Let me take those.” He carefully lifted the vase and walked around the counter to the living room, placing the flowers on the coffee table. Dean was frozen in place. He watched as Castiel stood, straightening the hem of his suit jacket.

“Dean?” Castiel’s questioning gaze was on him, and he stepped forward like he intended to help Dean walk to the living room, which was so not happening. Dean forced his legs to move and he ambled around the counter, dropping unceremoniously onto the loveseat. As soon as he sat down, he felt the last remnants of energy draining away. He needed to sleep.

“Do you need me to get you anything? Tea? Water?” Castiel began taking steps back toward the kitchen.

Dean shook his head. “I don’t want to drink anything.”

Castiel pondered for a moment. “I could make you something to eat? If you’d like.” He was avoiding Dean’s eye, looking back at the small kitchen.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Dean’s drugged and tired brain had no filter, evidently.

Castiel finally looked at him. He seemed like he was sad. Dean found that very fascinating, for some reason. “I wanted to try and make amends,” Castiel replied. “For my involvement in that whole… thing.”

Dean nodded. Seemed reasonable. He wasn’t even that mad at Cas anymore.

“And I find myself wanting something that I can’t possibly have.” Castiel trailed off, hands folding and unfolding, nervously fretting.

The room was spinning. Dean was having trouble keeping his head up. “What’s that?”

Castiel shrugged, “To be your friend.”

Dean didn’t think that was so unreasonable. Cas seemed like an okay guy, now that he wasn’t being all douchey and self-important. “Okay.”

Castiel was staring at him. “What?”

Dean shrugged, matching Castiel’s gesture. “We can be friends.” He really just wanted to go to sleep. His head felt heavy and his throat raw. He patted the empty space on the couch beside him.

Castiel hesitated, but eventually stepped forward and sat on the couch next to Dean, keeping a respectable distance.

Dean smiled at him sleepily. Cas smiled back, still unsure. Perhaps he doubted Dean’s ability to make such decisions in his current state. He was about to say something when he felt his stomach turn violently.

With a cursory hand thrown up to keep Castiel back, he leaned over the arm of the couch and emptied what little substance was in his stomach into the conveniently placed wastebasket. It was mostly bile and it burned like hell. He barely registered a strong hand rubbing circles into his back as he retched. When it was over he stayed slumped over the arm of the loveseat, reluctant to move in case the soothing circles stopped.

After a moment, he sat up and pulled a wad of tissues out of a pocket, wiping his face and tossing them into the bin. He leaned his head back against the couch cushions and closed his eyes.

“Sorry ‘bout that.” He managed to choke out. If his throat was raw before it was totally shredded now. He remembered the lozenges he noticed earlier that Bela must have left in the bathroom cupboard and attempted to push himself off the couch.

That strong hand was back, holding him down firmly but without much restraint. “What do you need?”

Dean opened his eyes. Castiel was already up off the couch, waiting for instructions. “Cough drops, bathroom cupboard.”

“You know, those things don’t really work…” Castiel began, but the stern glare Dean cast at him shut him up. He held up his hands, “Sorry. Don’t move.”

He dashed off to the bathroom and returned moments later with two boxes of lozenges. “I didn’t know if you wanted black current or honey lemon.”

Dean didn’t really care, he pointed to the yellow one and Castiel dutifully dispensed one into his open palm. “Thanks” he rasped. He popped the bright gem-like lozenge into his mouth. The taste wasn’t too bad.

Castiel observed him for a moment, making Dean squirm a little, and then sat back down on the couch.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else I can get you?” Castiel was sitting a little closer now, watching Dean carefully.

Dean side-eyed him as he slowly sucked on the lozenge. He was going to tell him no, that he could leave him to die alone in his apartment now, when his traitorous stomach growled. He knew full well that if he ate anything, it probably wouldn’t stay down, but God, was he hungry.

He chanced another quick glance over at Castiel, still staring, still here. “Well if you’re gonna keep asking, I wouldn’t say no to some soup.”

Castiel was up in a flash, “Certainly. Any preference?” He headed into the kitchen and opened cabinets until he found a suitable pot to cook with.

“Whatever’s in the pantry,” he lied. He still wanted that tomato with rice, but he wasn’t about to give him a damn recipe to follow. Whatever Cas was content with making him would do fine.

Castiel found the pantry and after a quick search returned with a can of tomato soup.

 _Imagine that._ Dean thought.

“Is this alright?” Castiel held up the can and Dean nodded. He lay down and stretched out as best he could on the short sofa and pillowed his head under his arm. He watched Castiel putter around the kitchen, being strangely nice and preparing him food. It wasn’t long before he could no longer keep his eyes open. They drifted closed, and within moments his breathing had evened out and he was lost to the world.

When he woke up, it was to Castiel, still in his apartment, gently jostling him awake. He got an eyeful of bright blue, mere inches from his face and he shot up. The room spun and his head felt even worse now, amazingly enough. Once he recalibrated, he registered the bowl of soup on the coffee table. He couldn’t have been out very long; there was still steam wafting up from the surface of the red liquid. He smiled weakly up at Castiel, who was hovering again. “Thanks,” was all he could croak out. The lozenge hadn’t really done much beyond leaving a funny taste in his mouth.

Castiel smiled back, and sat in the armchair across from the sofa. He reached for the newspaper on the table, flipping through it and finding a comfortable position. He looked like he belonged there. Like an old friend, effortlessly slotting back into their place in your life after years spent apart. It was a bit surreal. Dean’s stomach growled again and he tore his gaze away from the odd picture Cas made and back to the bowl of warm, delicious sustenance.

He picked up the bowl and at a closer glance, noticed something he hadn’t before. He gathered some in the spoon and let it slide back into the bowl. This wasn’t just tomato soup. This was tomato soup with rice. Dean briefly entertained the notion that Cas might be some freaky mind reader, but his musings were interrupted by the man himself.

“I hope you don’t mind, I’m just used to making it that way. My brother used to make it for me when I was sick.”

Dean was still holding the spoon a few inches above the bowl, a little freaked out but largely impressed. “My mom, too. For me.” He was having a moment. He was ready to take back every bad thing he ever said about Castiel Novak on the small happenstance that he liked his tomato soup the same way.

“Dean?” Castiel was giving him a strange look over the entertainment page.

“Right.” He remembered why he was holding soup in the first place and took a hearty spoonful. It tasted like home and nostalgia and it was just what he needed. “Thanks, Cas. This is great.”

Castiel smiled a little proudly and returned to reading the paper while Dean shoveled spoonful after spoonful of the miraculous soup into his mouth, forgetting all about his churning stomach.

When he finished, he put the bowl back on the coffee table and nestled into the corner of the couch, propping his feet up on the end of the table.

Castiel began to stand up, reaching for the empty bowl, but Dean put a hand up to stop him. “Just leave it.” Castiel paused mid-rise.

“Sit down.” Dean ordered. “Relax,”

Castiel sat, but he wasn’t as relaxed as he had been just seconds ago.

“I wanted to apologize too,” Dean began. He felt a lot better after eating and his head was a bit clearer now. “I know I’ve been kind of a dick.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Castiel started, but Dean cut him off with a stern hand.

“No, listen. I judged you pretty harshly.” He was avoiding Cas’ eyes. “But as it turns out, you’re uh… not so bad.” He smirked, fixating on a whorl in the wood grain of the coffee table.

Castiel wasn’t saying anything. Dean waited for something to happen and when nothing did he was forced to drag his eyes away from his fixation point and look at Cas.

Dean expected to find blue staring back but Castiel had lowered his gaze. He would have appeared unhappy or repentant had not Dean caught a glimpse of a relieved smile.

Castiel drew in a deep breath and raised his head. His blue eyes were a bit misty and it pulled at something in Dean. “Thank you, Dean. I appreciate it.”

Dean nodded curtly. He was starting to feel too warm under Castiel’s fond gaze. He rubbed the back of his neck and distracted himself by reaching for his phone. He had three missed texts from Charlie and one from Sam. He ignored them all and tossed his phone to the other end of the sofa.

His eyes cast around the room, looking for something to relieve him from having to talk about feelings and crap. He spotted the Battle Royale DVD that he’d fished out of storage a week ago with the unfulfilled intention of watching it. He leaned over the arm of the couch and grabbed it off the end table. A lot of gore and some bad acting should make for a good distraction. “Wanna watch a movie?”

*

Unsurprisingly, Castiel had never seen the movie. Afterward, he voiced that he was probably better off having not seen it.

Dean had had to put up with a running commentary, something he’d never expected from someone who was usually so reserved. The blood was too fake, the acting was terrible, and the plot was less than believable.

“But that’s the whole point, Cas.” Dean had tried to defend it, but he knew as well as anyone that this movie adaptation followed the pattern of so many others: the book was a thousand times better.

Still, he liked that he didn’t have to think as much when he watched the movie. It was just bloody and violent and a great way to deter the conversation from any sort of touchy-feely… stuff.

Of course, Dean always found a way to veer straight back into dangerous territory. Without thinking, he’d let slip that he’d told Thursday to read the book because it was, honestly, a lot better than the movie.

“Who’s Thursday?” Castiel asked, munching thoughtfully on the popcorn Dean had insisted they make, even though he gave up trying to eat it after two handfuls of pain and suffering. He was back to sitting on the couch beside Dean, cross-legged like a primary school kid.

“Uh…” _Crap._ “He’s…” Curse his drug-addled brain. What was Thursday? A pen pal? A friend? Something else? He settled for ambiguity. “I was supposed to be meeting him, that night at the café.”

“Oh,” Castiel said, quietly. “I’m sorry you didn’t get that chance.”

“Thanks, but,” Dean grumbled, “he never showed. I’d been sitting there a good half hour when you came in.”

“I hope he gave you a good reason.” Castiel sounded affronted on his behalf. It was kind of nice.

“Well… I asked him, but I don’t really… know him.” He wanted to hide. It had to seem kinda weird to someone outside of the situation. “I mean I feel like I know him, even if I don’t _know_ him…”

Saying it out loud to a total outsider was putting a harsh perspective on everything. Maybe he didn’t know him as well as he’d like to think.

“So you’ve never met him?” Castiel was being anything but judgmental, which eased Dean’s mind greatly.

“No.” Dean admitted. He dragged his hands down his face and stared with a brewing frustration at his laptop. “We e-mail.”

Castiel hummed, like he was assessing the situation. “And his name is Thursday? That’s very odd.”

“It’s an alias.”

“What does he call you then?” Castiel’s tone was lilting and playful.

Dean rolled his eyes, hoping that Cas would take the heated blush currently filling his face to be a side effect of his influenza. “I’m not telling.”

Cas laughed, light as air, “Why not?”

“Because.” He shoved at Cas’ shoulder and it only made the man laugh more. “You’re not supposed to laugh. It’s a sad state of affairs I’ve got going on here.”

Castiel sat upright and attempted to compose himself. “Right, of course. Have you made plans to meet again?”

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and curled into the corner again. “No. He said he needed more time.”

“Time to do what?” Castiel seemed to sense that he was unhappy with that decision.

“I don’t know. Maybe I scared him off.”

Castiel outright snorted. “That’s highly unlikely.” He set the bowl of popcorn on the table and turned his whole body around to face Dean. “Do you still want to meet him?”

Dean nodded, eyes sliding back to the laptop. “Yeah, I do.”

Castiel looked like he was bracing himself to ask the next question. “I don’t want to overstep or make assumptions, but I take it you’re interested in pursuing more than friendship with this person, correct?”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. This was exactly the kind of conversation he’d been trying to avoid with the gore and violence. He threw his hands up and maybe startled Cas a little with his exuberance.

“Yes! Okay? What of it?”

Castiel looked like a cross between highly amused and for some reason, relieved, but he merely shook his head. “Nothing, Dean. I think it’s wonderful.”

Dean rolled his eyes for the hundredth time since Castiel entered his apartment.

“Really. I hope you two are able to finally meet one day.” He leaned forward and squeezed Dean’s shoulder sincerely. “Now then,” he said, unfolding his legs and rising from the couch. “I should be off. I told my brother I’d meet him for dinner.”

Dean pushed himself off the couch as Cas slipped on his trenchcoat.

“Hey,” he stopped him as Castiel stepped over the threshold. “Thanks. For today.”

Castiel smiled again and Dean found himself thinking he could really get used to that sight, “It was no trouble. Thank you for showing me that awful movie.”

Dean laughed, but it was more of a wheeze. He nodded and went to close the door.

“Get back on that couch and get some rest.” Cas called from halfway down the hall.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean muttered, closing the door and heading back to his loveseat. He stopped in the kitchen for another bowl of soup. Cas had found his Tupperware containers and had put the leftovers in the fridge. Dean nuked the entire container, realizing how hungry he still was. He brought it back to the living room and flicked on the TV. He watched an episode of Breaking Bad while he ate the whole bowl.

Afterward, he stretched out on the couch and fell asleep within minutes, thinking about how strange his life had become that his arch nemesis had just made him soup to rival Mary Winchester’s.


	11. Why Can't We Be Friends?

Over the course of the next week, Dean slowly recovered. He stopped hacking up a lung every few minutes, or throwing up his meals. His mind was even clear and focused long enough one afternoon to come to a conclusion regarding Thursday. He was going to continue on like nothing had happened.

He was confident that whatever was going on with his friend would be solved in its own time, and his moping around wasn’t going to hurry it along any faster. So in the meantime, he may as well make an effort to show he cared enough to stick around.

Five days after Castiel’s impromptu visit, when his eyes were able to focus on a screen for more than five minutes, Dean started a new message to Thursday.

\---

To                      Subject  
angelofthur....   (no subject)

Hey,

How have you been? I know it’s been a while since we’ve talked. E-mailed. Whatever. Truth be told I was avoiding it for a while, trying to give you some space, I guess. I don’t know.

I know you’ve got something going on that’s holding you back from meeting me and that’s fine. But I don’t want us to stop talking altogether. I don’t want to lose this.

Can everything just go back to the way it was? Or, something like that…

Let me know what you think.

\---

Dean hit send with a prayer that Thursday would be amenable to his suggestion.

He checked the time. He was meeting Charlie for lunch to discuss a potential project in a little over three hours. He was feeling a lot better today, and the sun was shining through his window, warm and inviting, so he decided to get out of the house a little early and take a walk.

*

He strolled through the streets near his apartment building, stopping periodically to window shop, or smile at a child trying desperately to keep up with her melting ice cream cone.

He crossed the street near a small corner café and bistro. The sandwich board outside the door advertised iced coffees and with the mid-morning summer heat beating down on him, he was powerless to resist. He pulled the door open, stepping into the cool, air conditioned café.

As he stood in line, Dean mused about the epiphany he’d had two days earlier during one of his more lucid moments. He had told Charlie, who’d eagerly jumped on board. They were meeting today just to briefly lay some groundwork and figure out the basics, but Dean was thrumming with excitement nonetheless.

He was so caught up in his own little world that he didn’t notice the person standing directly beside him until his shoulder was being tapped.

“Dean.” _Castiel ‘I’m Everywhere’ Novak_ was standing there, holding a sickly-sweet looking frappucino and smiling like he’d just won $100 on a scratch-and-win.

“Cas.” Dean stared blankly, and while he was pondering Cas’ penchant for turning up literally everywhere, the cashier was calling for his attention.

Dean stepped forward, holding his index finger up for Cas to wait for him. He ordered his iced coffee, black, and then quickly walked around the counter to the pick-up area. He looked around the small shop and located Castiel, standing and staring out the window beside the door. He wasn’t wearing the trench coat today, Dean noted. Instead he had on a pair of light wash jeans and a worn out black t-shirt with the words ‘Too Hot to Handel’ printed across the chest beside a logo for the New York Philharmonic Orchestra.

He’d never seen Cas in such casual clothes before, and it was throwing him off. He’d always seen him in a suit, with the exception of their first meeting in Book Haven, and the party where it all went wrong.

That’s not to say he didn’t look just as good, standing there, without a care in the world that he was wearing the world’s dorkiest t-shirt.

He accepted his drink from the barista and headed toward Cas.

“Hey,” Dean said as he approached.

Castiel smiled. Dean blushed.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Castiel offered. He gestured to the empty table beside them. “Do you have some time?”

Dean still had two hours to fill before meeting Charlie. He shrugged and took one of the seats beside the window. Castiel sat opposite him, leaning back and getting comfortable, just like he had in Dean’s living room only a few days ago. The familiar sight was enough to bring a small, fond smile to his lips. If Castiel noticed, he didn’t comment.

“How are you feeling?” He was studying Dean now, as if trying to determine an answer from his appearance alone.

“Much better, thanks to you.” That soup was the only thing Dean had been able to keep down. He still didn’t know what he did to deserve that kind of care. Only that he’s glad he did.

Castiel shook his head, brows pulling together in a display of confusion that was far too cute for a grown-ass man. “I didn’t do anything.”

Dean took a long sip of his iced coffee and shrugged. “You were there.”

Castiel lowered his gaze, toying with the plastic cup in his hands. Then he seemed to remember something. “Oh, have you talked to your friend? The one you were going to meet?”

Dean once again entertained the idea of a psychic Castiel and tried to hide his smile. “Yeah, I sent him an e-mail this morning, actually.”

Something bright flashed in Castiel’s blue eyes and he smiled. “Glad to hear it.”

Dean nodded, hopeful that things with Thursday would soon smooth over.

*

Going on twenty minutes late, Dean stood outside a crumbling, three-storey building and pressed the buzzer for Charlie’s apartment. He’d lost track of time chatting with Cas in the café, and he only hoped that Charlie wouldn’t mind his lateness.

“WHERE have you been?” Came a shrill, crackly demand through the speaker, making Dean jump ten feet in the air.

“Jesus Christ… I know, I’m late. Just let me in already.” The buzzer sounded and a click told him the main door was open. He walked up the two flights of stairs to her apartment – the building did not come with the luxury of an elevator – and knocked on her door, bracing for the worst.

Charlie swung open the door, looking unimpressed, but only halfheartedly. Dean could tell she was as excited as he to get started. “I was about to go looking for you dude. You’re just getting over the flu, for all I know you were passed out on the side of the road somewhere!”

Dean held up his hands, “Sorry, got side-tracked. I’m fine, honest.” He pulled her into a tight hug. “Good to see you, kid.”

Charlie squeezed him tight, then squirmed out of his embrace and bouncing excitedly, “Okay now can we get started?”

Dean grinned, sweeping an arm toward the living room. “Lead the way.”

*

To                      Subject  
zeppelin67@.... (no subject)

Dear friend,

I have been well, though I have missed your presence in my life. I know that it’s my own doing, and I apologize for being so vague about my absence that night. I would love nothing more than to be able to talk to you, like we used to.

I hope you’re doing well. I really do.

I’m not going anywhere.  
Thursday

\---

Cas shrugged at the message on the screen. He hoped this would be enough to get Dean talking again while he prepared to execute his master plan. He clicked send and shut down his computer. He knew he held the upper hand, as he knew Zeppelin’s true identity, but Dean was still in the dark. He felt kinda bad sneaking around and gathering intel under the premise of ‘concerned outsider’, but he had to be sure that when he finally revealed himself, Dean wouldn’t turn and walk away. He needed to make sure Dean liked _Cas_ before _Thursday_ could make his move.

He thought about his accidental coffee date with Dean while he wandered from room to room, picking up empty mugs and days old newspapers.

Since Meg’s departure, he hadn’t really been keeping up with the cleaning. It was too easy to get side tracked thinking about a certain green-eyed shop owner...

 _Ex-shop owner_. The reminder roused another pang of guilt. He forced his attention back to their meeting yesterday and wondered how Dean could be so positive having just lost his store little more than a week ago. It had taken him a few moments to open up but once he had, Dean gleamed brighter than Cas had ever seen him.

He gushed about his brother Sam, Sam’s wife Jess, his little nephew Henry and the new baby that was on the way. Clearly family meant a great deal to him, and Castiel could relate. If Anna, Michael, and Hannah lived as far away as Sam and his family did, he’d go crazy.

He’d said as much to Dean, who, unsurprisingly, remembered a great deal about Cas’ niece and nephew from their first encounter in Book Haven.

Sitting in that café, he was more like the Dean they’d met that day than the one Castiel had been presented with for months afterward, though he knew why. Those people working in his shop were his family just as much as Sam or Jess or Henry. He completely understood now.

Castiel, in turn, had pried for more questions about ‘Thursday’, unable to resist having a little fun.

“So this online friend of yours...” he’d begun.

“Oh come on, not you too.” Dean had replied with an exaggerated sigh. “Why can’t a guy just talk to another guy anonymously through the internet without everyone making a fuss about it?” His tone was frustrated, but there was a sardonic smile playing across his lips.

Castiel played along, “Well it does seem a bit odd, don’t you think?” He tried to hold back the teasing grin that was threatening to break out, “You don’t know his name, correct?”

“No, I don’t.” Dean admitted, “But I don’t care right now.”

“Right now?” Castiel prompted.

“Well, eventually…” Dean began to deflate. “I dunno. I still wanna meet him, but I don’t know if he still wants to meet me, you know?” Dean looked up at Cas through his eyelashes. His expression held a small glimmer of hope, but was mostly morose, and Castiel found he was having a really hard time staying on his side of the table.

“Well I can’t speak for him,” Castiel began, feeling like he might be taking the fun too far. “But I will say that he’s dumb as a brick house if he doesn’t want to meet you.”

Dean was still looking at him, but the gloom had all but vanished from his face and surprise was quickly taking its place.

“Um,” He looked down at his hands folded on the table, cleared his throat. “Thanks, Cas.”

He sat back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. It was then that he seemed to remember something and checked the time on his phone.

“Shit. Sorry man, I gotta bolt. Charlie’s waiting for me and she’ll kill me if I’m late.” He stood, tossing his empty plastic cup into the bin. Castiel decided it might be a bit awkward to walk out together after that somewhat odd moment. “I’m going to stay for a while. Have a good time with your friend.”

He smiled and waved. Dean beamed back at him and waved as he strode through the doorway and took off at a brisk pace down the street. Moments later, when he thought the coast would be clear, Castiel rose and walked back to his apartment.

That had been the first time they’d really been able to talk, and Castiel was enamored already. Truthfully, he had probably been sold on him the first day he walked into his store.

He really hoped his plan would work.

*

To                      Subject  
angelofthur....   (no subject)

Hi,

I was so happy to hear – well, read – you say that. I was being an idiot.

Aaand I was maybe kinda sulking. A little bit. Well, that and I had the flu for like 4 days.

I also ended up having to do something I really didn’t want to do. I never told you this, but I used to own a store. When I told you I was having business trouble, I was trying to keep my business from going under. Well, it didn’t work and I had to close. That hit hard and I wasn’t dealing with it very well, and I pretended I was mad at you when really I was mad at myself for not being able to save my mom’s store and… Well, now you know.

I’m feeling better about it now. I’ve been working on a plan. Something to do with all this free time I’ve got now. If it works out, I promise I’ll tell you what it is. Until then, it’s a secret ;)

~~Did I seriously just type a winky face? What am I 12???~~

So that’s what my life’s been like. How about you?  
Zeppelin out.

\---

Date                                   From                                Subject  
**Wed July 16, 2014            angelofthursd....              (no subject)**  
9:43 pm

I am very sorry to hear that you had to close your store. That can’t have been an easy decision to make. I do hope that this new venture pans out for you. You deserve something good.

I also hope you’re feeling better now. I don’t know very many people who have managed to catch influenza in the middle of summer. I’m impressed.

In regards to my own life, it’s been rather uneventful. I recently got out of a relationship and now it’s just me and Inias in this apartment. When it happened, I found myself surprised that I wasn’t all that broken up about it. If I’m being completely honest, my heart hadn’t really been in it for a while. I guess she just realized that before I did. It was time to move on. I don’t mind living alone. I definitely prefer it to living with someone who doesn’t want to be here.

I’m sorry, that was far more depressing than I’d hoped this message would be. I’m really okay, I promise.

More than okay, now that I have these e-mails to look forward to once again.

Talk again soon,  
Thursday.

\---

Dean couldn’t help but smile reading Thursday’s latest e-mail. It sucked that he got dumped, though it seemed to be a similar situation to his own departure from Bela. He was also kind of happy that Thursday had made a point to tell him that he was unattached. It took away some of the giant question marks still hanging over their ambiguous relationship.

 _She_. Dean reread the message. Thursday definitely said a _she_ broke up with him. Maybe Dean was barking up the wrong tree. Or maybe Thursday was, like Dean, a fan of both flavours. That would be a question for another time. Dean didn’t think he was wrong in feeling that they had built up a strong connection to one another.

Aside from all that, it felt good to talk to Thursday again, without the pressure of the closure hanging over his head. It also felt good to tell someone about it who was, effectively, an outsider.

Besides, he wasn’t really mad anymore. He was still kinda pissed at Garrison, and would never in his life set foot in one of their stores. Cas, he stopped being mad at weeks ago.

Castiel Novak. He wasn’t an enemy anymore. Dean thought it kind of weird, that in just a few short weeks, Cas went from being Dean’s worst enemy to, he supposed now, a friend. Well, maybe a friendly acquaintance…

*

A few days later, on a rather balmy July evening, Dean was walking home from another fruitful meeting with Charlie, when his stomach violently reminded him that they’d skipped dinner. He spotted a lone food cart with a short line half a block away and decided to grab something to eat while he walked.

Lo and behold, as he neared the cart, he spotted a familiar beige trench coat, slung over the arm of Castiel Novak, who was fruitlessly trying to squeeze ketchup from an almost empty bottle into a tiny paper cup.

 _What a coincidence._ Dean thought sarcastically, while really beginning to wonder if the universe was trying to tell him something with all these chance encounters.

Castiel didn’t notice him approaching, so consumed as he was with his quest for ketchup. Dean sidled up beside him and nudged his elbow. “Having some trouble, there?”

Castiel blinked up at him, still squeezing the ketchup bottle. “Dean. Hello.”

“Hello to you too, Cas.” Dean said, teasingly. “What are you doing?”

Castiel sighed before giving up and placing the bottle back on the metal counter. “Attempting the impossible, clearly. How are you?”

Dean was feeling pretty good. He was over the flu, finally. He was making some good headway on this project with Charlie. Everything with Thursday was back to normal. All in all, things were looking up.

“Really good, actually.”

Castiel beamed. “Good. I’m glad.” The fact that Castiel could look so happy about Dean being happy was something he never thought he’d witness in his lifetime. He could only stare back, unsure of what to make of it.

He watched as Cas’ smile quickly grew weary and he turned back to his food.

“You doing okay, Cas?” Dean leaned imperceptibly closer, concern etched into his features.

The other man sighed and waved him off. “Yes, I’ve just been swamped at work lately, and I think it’s starting to take a toll on my mental faculties…” he indicated the stubborn ketchup bottle and then paused for a moment, gathering his food, “But it’s been nice to see so much of you lately.”

Once again Castiel’s sincerity caught Dean off guard.

“Yeah,” he replied lamely, scratching at the back of his neck. “I’m gonna just…” he waved toward the line where now only one person stood waiting to place their order.

Castiel reached out and touched his wrist lightly as he headed to the window, stopping him dead in his tracks. “Would you like to join me?” He pointed to one of the rickety plastic tables set up to the side of the cart.

Dean only hesitated for a moment, and then nodded, “Sure.” Not like he has anywhere else to be. “I’ll meet you over there.”

Castiel headed to the table, arranging his food and napkins to his liking while Dean watched. He stepped up to the window when the man in front of him was finished, ordered himself a large coke and some pretentious burger with ‘everything on it but the kitchen sink’ and waited impatiently for the cook to fill his order.

He grabbed his tray of food and approached the table, something akin to nerves brewing in his stomach, though he didn’t know why.

Well, okay, he _knew_ why, but he refused to believe that he was actually nervous about having a food truck burger with this guy. They were just two casual friends having a casual meal together under the lamplight as the sun set in the distance.

Totally platonic. So those butterflies in his stomach could fuck right off.

“Looks good,” Castiel remarked as Dean sat down opposite him, nodding toward Dean’s over-stuffed burger. “This is my first meal today, believe it or not,” He raised the meatball sub in his hands to his mouth, taking a huge bite. He closed his eyes and made some frankly obscene, gratified sounds that stirred up the butterflies in Dean’s stomach, as well as some other things.

Thankfully, Dean remembered to close his mouth before Castiel opened his eyes.

_Jesus Christ._

To stop himself from saying or doing something royally stupid, Dean shoved the burger in his mouth. It was pretty damn good.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, watching passersby and exchanging appreciative nods over their respective sandwiches. Castiel finished first, wiping the excess marinara sauce from his hands with the napkins he grabbed from the self-serve station. He took a thoughtful sip of his soda before posing a question.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he began, almost hesitantly, “I know it’s probably none of my business…”

Dean finished chewing his last bite and swallowed, “Cas, spit it out.”

Castiel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, I was wondering how you were doing. After the closure, I mean, but I didn’t think it my place to ask.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I was pretty pissed for a while. Not just at you…”

Castiel immediately dropped his gaze and looked ashamed.

“Stop that. It wasn’t your fault.” Dean chided, nudging Cas’ folded hands with his own. He didn’t pull his hands away and neither did Cas, so he continued. “Then I was just… tired, mostly. Tired of being mad.”

Castiel nodded, eyes meeting Dean’s again.

“Then I got sick,” Dean chuckled, “So that wasn’t really a step up.” Dean felt Cas’ fingers twitch against his own.

“I did have a bit of a breakthrough recently. Might help to get me where I want to be.” Dean smiled.

Cas smiled back, curious. “What was it?”

Dean grinned, too excited about his venture to hide it. “I’m making a comic book with Charlie.”

He watched as Cas’ eyes lit up with curiosity and couldn’t stop the rush of pride he felt as he continued. “She’s an amazing artist, I’m not too shabby in the writing department… it just seemed to be a good fit.”

“Dean, that’s amazing,” Cas’ expression matched his own. He unfolded his hands and placed them atop Dean’s, still sitting in the middle of the table.

“Yeah, we’re both pretty psyched about it. We think we’ve got a real shot at a great story…” Now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop smiling. He felt Cas’ hands squeeze his for the briefest of moments, and then they were gone, busying themselves with the napkins scattered around Cas’ side of the table.

Dean pulled his hands onto his lap, missing the tingly warmth.

“Well that sounds like a very promising endeavour.” Cas had stopped his hands and was once again gazing intently at Dean. “I sincerely wish you all the best.”

“Thanks, Cas.” He grinned for what felt like the hundredth time since they started eating, and reluctantly began to gather up his trash. “I should probably be heading home.”

Castiel nodded and they both stood, tossing their trash in the nearby receptacle. He shrugged on the trench coat and Dean only then noticed the chilly bite to the air.

“We keep running into each other,” Cas remarked pleasantly.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” Dean huffed. “Maybe we’ll run into each other tomorrow. Around lunch time?” He decided if he was going to be ‘friends’ with Castiel Novak, he may as well go all in.

Castiel grinned, “Indeed. Maybe over there?” He pointed to the same small café they had coffee in earlier that week.

“Sounds good.” Dean mirrored Castiel’s grin and waved as he headed down the street toward his apartment. “Night, Cas.”

He heard Cas call out “Goodnight, Dean,” and was glad he was too far away for Cas to see the stupidly happy look on his face.


	12. (Not) Just a Walk in the Park

“I don’t think I could ever be with someone who didn’t like to read.” Dean said confidently as he tore off another piece of giant soft pretzel and popped it in his mouth.

“Nor I,” Castiel replied, a bit relieved that at last they agreed on something. They’d been meeting for lunch in the park for the past week and a half and had been getting on surprisingly well. Somewhere amidst the casual banter, the conversation had taken a turn toward relationships. What were their deal-breakers, what could they put up with, that sort of thing. Both of them being in the book business, it made sense that reading books was a must-have. Apart from that, they hadn’t agreed on much.

Dean finished off his pretzel and tossed the paper bag it came in into the nearest trash can. “I guess the only other thing would be the cat thing.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes at the man walking beside him, oblivious to the irony of his statement. “What cat thing?”

Dean scratched at the coarse, short beard that was beginning to come in. “Well I’m allergic. I’d have to get allergy shots like every week. Who wants to do that?”

Castiel shrugged, “I have a cat.”

“Oh.” If Castiel wasn’t mistaken, Dean’s shoulders seemed to slump the tiniest bit as they walked on.

“I guess that makes it official.” Castiel smirked and in an impromptu moment of boldness, clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “We’re simply not meant to be.” He tried to hide the knowing smile that played across his lips as he dropped his hand and continued on down the path.

Dean was uncharacteristically quiet, and Castiel took the opportunity for some friendly hazing. “I could never be with someone who liked Led Zeppelin.” He had to fight harder to keep the smile off his face when he heard Dean’s quiet scoff of indignation. “Really though, who spends _ten years_ wandering around looking for someone? And what exactly is _rambling_?”

He could tell even without looking behind that Dean was about to launch into a full-scale rebuttal, so he quickly changed the subject. “How’s your brother, by the way?”

Dean glared at him when Castiel turned around to face him with an innocent smile, but he took the bait.   
“Sam’s fine. He’s coming down soon. Just him though. Jess is about to pop and she doesn’t want to sit in a car for six hours.”

“Isn’t that euphemism a bit disrespectful?” Castiel chided. He remembered when Gabriel said that to Anna when she’d been pregnant with Michael. She nearly took his eye out when she threw the TV remote at his head.

“She’s basically my kid sister. No point in being delicate. She’d beat the shit out of me either way just for mentioning it.” Dean grinned fondly thinking about what a catch his brother’s wife was and how lucky Sam was to have her.

Castiel gestured to the park bench that was coming up on the right of the path so they made their way over and sat down. “She sounds wonderful. They both do.”

Dean smiled softly, head ducked. “Yeah.” Then, quieter, “I miss them a lot.”

Castiel didn’t know if he was meant to hear that, so he said nothing. They sat in contemplative silence for a while, watching the people milling about the park square; the kids playing in the water fountain despite the fall-like chill in the air. It was the end of August. The last few days before the kids all returned to school and Castiel would resume his fun Tuesday afternoons with Michael and Hannah.

He reminisced about that – dare he say fateful – day when they came across Dean’s little store. Never would Castiel have thought that he’d be sitting on a park bench sharing a comfortable silence with the bright-eyed, lively shop owner just a few months later. He certainly didn’t expect to fall so profoundly for him through e-mail long before he discovered that it had been the same man on the other end of the keyboard all along.

Castiel still held the upper hand… but how would he use it? If Gabriel knew how devious Castiel was being, plotting a secret revelation while sitting next to the very man he was going to reveal everything to, he’d undoubtedly be proud.

He jumped when Dean tentatively touched a hand to his wrist, resting on the bench between them. He turned his attention to the green eyes that were watching him closely.

Dean quickly withdrew his hand as if he’d been burned and cleared his throat. “Hey, uh,” he held up his phone, time displayed on the screen. “Isn’t your lunch break over?”

Castiel squinted at the small numbers. “Shit.” Reluctantly, he stood, waiting for Dean to stop gaping at the rare expletive that left Castiel’s mouth and do the same. They began to walk back to the Garrison office building, a bit quicker than their leisurely stroll through the park a few minutes earlier. “I guess I lost track of the time.”

Dean lifted his hands, palms out. “Hey, I ain’t your boss. Just didn’t want you to get in shit for being late.”

Castiel waved it off. Gabriel wouldn’t care. Raphael might, but so what?

_So what?_

Castiel stopped dead in the middle of the path.

Dean stopped a few steps ahead and turned back to stare quizzically back at him. “Uh… Cas? You comin’?”

Castiel shook his head. _Screw it._ “I don’t have to be back right away.”

Dean face lit up for the fraction of a second before he could school it back to a neutral expression. “Okay. What do you want to do, then?”

Castiel pointed to a street market, the tail end visible across the park square and down the road a little. “Can we go in there?”

Dean twisted around to follow Castiel’s outstretched arm. “Yeah, sure.” He waited for Castiel to catch up and then proceeded in the direction of the market. Dean good-naturedly bumped Castiel’s arm as they walked. “Looking to buy some mangoes, Cas?”

Castiel nudged back, secretly reveling in the simple casualness of the exchange. “Maybe I am.”

*

They wandered through the street market for a little over an hour. Castiel appeared to have forgotten about his job entirely, and Dean wasn’t about to make him leave any time soon. Despite all the shit they’d been through, Dean had come to enjoy Castiel’s company. He was an alright guy, it turned out, and not the unfeeling jackass he’d painted in his head. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“You’re seriously buying mangoes?” Dean stood beside Cas as he painstakingly inspected every mango before selecting three and handing them to the bored-looking teenager behind the fruit stand. She bagged them and exchanged the bag for the three $1 bills that Castiel held out.

“Yes. As evidenced by the exchange you just witnessed,” Castiel drawled, voice laden with sarcasm. Dean was once again surprised and a bit impressed with the level of sass that man was capable of.

Castiel turned back to Dean and caught the fond little smile that he was too slow to cover up. “What? I like mangoes.”

Dean rolled his eyes and they continued down the strip, eyes passing over the tables that were all crammed in a line, overflowing with handmade jewelry, trinkets, and candies to name a few. Castiel caught sight of a table a few feet away and took off at a brisk pace, leaving Dean to weave his way through a throng of shoppers that Cas had somehow managed to breeze past.

He found him standing rapt and engrossed before a table that was covered in about thirty different kinds of honey. There was wildflower, orange blossom, traditional clover, even maple-bacon infused honey. Most of them looked the same to Dean, but Castiel was very gingerly picking up every jar and inspecting it. For what, Dean didn’t know. There was a little dish of flat wooden toothpicks next to a row of open samples. When Dean pointed it out to Castiel, the man’s eyes grew wide and he very sincerely asked the greying petite woman behind the table if he could try some.

“Of course dear, that’s what it’s there for,” She replied kindly. She smiled at them both and offered Castiel the dish of toothpicks. He took one and immediately went for the jasmine honeysuckle. Dean was too caught up in watching the look of pure euphoria on Cas’ face to notice the jar of toothpicks being held out to him.

“Would you like to try some as well?” She waved a hand over the samples, Vanna White style.

He shrugged. Dean Winchester was not one to turn down a free sample. He dug the toothpick into the maple-bacon honey because: hello, bacon.

Castiel was dipping a second toothpick into the orange blossom jar, and Dean wondered if he’d end up trying them all before they left the table.

He absently poked the honey-covered toothpick into his mouth.

He would be lying if he said he didn’t have a religious moment. Who knew honey could taste like that? Honey, to Dean, was the brownish liquid that came in a little plastic bear with a flip cap that he occasionally put on toast. This shit was like liquid gold. He had to fight down a moan or two because it was absolutely sinful. Whoever thought to make bacon-infused honey was a freaking genius.

The nice woman was watching them both expectantly. “So? What do you think?”

“This is amazing!” Dean and Castiel say in unison. Castiel turned to grin at Dean, who unabashedly grinned back.

The woman smiled at the two of them fondly. “I’m glad you like it.”

Dean waited for the inevitable sell, but she didn’t seem to be the soliciting type, as she merely sat back down and picked up the book she’d been reading, seemingly content to let them browse in peace.

Since they were no longer under close observation, Dean took another toothpick from the jar and dipped it in the maple-bacon. “Cas, you’ve gotta try this.”

Castiel turned, a third toothpick already sticking out from between his lips. He removed it, sucking lightly and making Dean a little more apprehensive about what he was about to do. He threw caution to the wind and held the honey-covered toothpick out towards the other man.

Castiel eyed it a bit suspiciously, but obligingly leaned forward and closed his mouth around the small wooden stick. Dean’s hand lingered for a second longer than was necessary but in all fairness he was distracted once again by that look on Cas’ face.

Castiel’s eyes fluttered closed, and he clearly wasn’t ashamed of making completely inappropriate sounds in the middle of a street market because he outright moaned around that toothpick and had Dean thinking all manner of depraved things.

Dean turned back to the table and swallowed hard. He picked up a jar of the maple-bacon honey and slapped a $10 bill onto the table next to the woman’s cash box.

Castiel picked up a small jar of hibiscus flowers which Dean had not noticed at all, and a jar of the jasmine honeysuckle. He paid the woman and smiled brightly at her as she thanked them and bid them farewell.

Dean placed the glass jar gingerly into his bag, which already contained a couple bottles of some weird-sounding craft ale from several tables back that he was going to make Sammy drink with him that weekend.

Castiel stopped at a few other tables, sampling some of the other culinary creations being offered and gazing in awe at many of the handcrafted items that were on display.

Dean observed him quietly as they made their way through the market. At one point, Castiel had pointed out a beautifully rustic wind chime made out of smoothed, broken shards of glass bottles that Castiel said matched the green in Dean’s eyes perfectly.

That had made him blush furiously for about five minutes, and garnered a few curious glances in their direction. The embarrassment wore off soon enough and Dean allowed himself to become immersed in the creative and eclectic displays. When they finally came to the last table, Dean was actually a bit disappointed.

They found another bench to sit on away from the crowds and inspected their purchases. Dean had refrained from buying anything else, but Castiel had acquired a nice collection. Aside from the honey and the mangoes he’d bought some weirdly awesome tea-infused chocolate, some kind of cat toy invention that this one frizzy-haired dude in a cat sweater was selling, and a sizeable box of crystallized ginger for his sister, who apparently loved the stuff.

“Oh!” Cas piped up suddenly, dropping the box of ginger back into the bag and looking up at Dean. “How’s your book coming along?”

Dean and Charlie had been working on the web comic near-constantly. The first few issues had gained a bit of steam online and they were actually starting to get some attention from publishers. He told Cas as much, who beamed at him.

“Dean, that’s wonderful.” Castiel was grinning at him so sincerely, Dean was inclined to believe it.

“Thanks.”

He remembered a conversation he’d had with Thursday way back when they’d first begun corresponding, and Dean had mentioned that his dream job, if he hadn’t had the store, was to be a writer. “You know, it was actually Thursday who got me thinking about writing.”

Castiel’s smile lost some of its brightness.

“Smart man.” He remarked, lowering his gaze to once again rifle through his bag of treasures.

“Yep.” Dean replied succinctly.

He’d been having a surprisingly awesome time with Cas these past few weeks, and it had made him begin to question the depth of his feelings for Thursday. He knew he had to meet him soon, the regular e-mails just weren’t cutting it anymore. Dean wanted more, but he wouldn’t pressure Thursday. If he wasn’t ready, Dean wouldn’t be the one to make him feel bad about that. But it had been well over a month, and he was starting to wonder if Thursday was ever going to be ready.

He had admitted to being kinda head over heels for the guy just a few weeks ago, but he was still, essentially, faceless. He wasn’t here.

Cas, sitting beside him on the bench, shoulders less than an inch apart, knees unconsciously knocking into his own, he was here. He was real.

Dean was screwed.


	13. A Plan in Motion

A rush of warm air greeted Castiel as he stepped out of his office building, eager to head home and reply to Dean’s latest e-mail. They’d had lunch the day before at a really good Vietnamese place near Castiel’s apartment, and had once again stumbled onto the topic of Dean’s ‘mysterious internet pen pal’.

Cas had been in a teasing sort of mood, so he let him have it.

“What if he’s extremely unattractive?” He goaded Dean, who had been studying his phŏ like it was going to jump out and bite him.

“Seriously?” Dean looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t care.”

Castiel pretended to consider that claim, “Really? I’m impressed, Winchester.”

Dean rolled his eyes and went back to investigating his soup with a spoon. When he said he’d never tried Vietnamese food before, he hadn’t expected that Dean would approach trying new foods like a five-year-old.

Castiel grinned wryly, “What if he’s secretly married?”

Dean shook his head, “Nah, he just told me he got out of a relationship.” He tentatively gathered a bite of noodles and broth in his spoon and poked it into his mouth, happily humming around the utensil.

“I told you it was good. You didn’t believe me.” Castiel chided as Dean rolled his eyes again. “He could be lying, you never know. What was the excuse he gave for not being able to meet you?”

Dean pointedly stared at his bowl, “Said he had some unforeseen complications to deal with.” He shovelled another spoonful of noodles into his mouth. “He’s not married,” he argued around the mouthful, pointing the spoon at Cas.

Cas shrugged, hiding the stubborn smirk trying to work its way onto his face, “Kinda sounds like he’s married.” He nodded, “Yeah. Married, approximately three kids.”

“He is _not_ married!” Dean exclaimed, a little too loud, drawing the attention of the people at the next booth. He smiled at them nervously. “He wouldn’t lie about that.”

Dean determinedly shovelled down another spoonful and Castiel took that as his cue to stop teasing.

Now, Castiel was smiling to himself as he let himself into his apartment, quickly fed Inias, and then headed straight for the office.

He tapped the mouse and the screen flared to life. He went straight for the only thing he was interested in right now: e-mail.

\---

Date                                      From                                     Subject ****  
Mon Aug 18, 2014            zepp67@....                       (no subject)  
12:14 pm

Thursday,

I can’t believe I’m asking you this, but someone put the stupid thought in my head and now I can’t get it out so I need you to give me some peace of mind.

You’re not like, married... are you?

I know, I’m sorry. I just need to be 100% certain. I know you just said you got out of a relationship... but yeah.

Please don’t hate me.  
Zepp.

\---

Castiel laughed richly, though he did feel kind of bad. His harmless intentions had caused Dean to question everything Thursday had told him, and even though Dean probably knew deep down he was being paranoid, it was Castiel who put that thought in his head. He’d have to be more mindful of Dean’s apparent gullibility in the future.

In the meantime...

\---

To                           Subject  
zeppelin67@.... (no subject)

You’re seriously asking me if I’m married? You can’t tell me you’re so gullible to believe that obvious falsehood. You know me better than that, or so I would hope.

What has gotten into you?  
Thursday.

\---

*

“So, he didn’t actually deny it?” Castiel asked innocently, hiding his wry expression by biting into an apple. It was a sunny, pleasantly warm, August afternoon and they were sitting in the park once again, having lunch on a bench near a small pond. There were ducks across the pond, and the faint, happy squeals and screams of children playing in the distance.

“Yes he did!” Dean protested, hand stopping halfway to his mouth with a Cheeto caught between his orange-stained thumb and forefinger. “He did! He said that I shouldn’t be so gullible and I should know him better than that and – “

He dropped the cheeto back into the bag. “He didn’t fucking say it. He gave me the run around, that smug asshole.” His grip on the bag tightened a little, though his expression held no malice.

Castiel tilted his head knowingly, “What did I tell you.”

“No he knew exactly what I was doing and he ran with it. He’s probably laughing it up right now.” Dean shook his head, but there was a small, fond smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Castiel was trying not to look too proud of himself. “Well, if it’s not the marriage thing… What’s his e-mail address?” He leaned forward, tossing some of the oats he’d brought for the ducks into the pond.

“I’m not telling you that.” Dean said vehemently, popping another Cheeto from the bag into his mouth.

Castiel sighed, “I’m not going to e-mail him if that’s what you’re worried about. I just want to know what his handle is.” He held his hands up, palms out in surrender, “I’m curious.”

Dean eyed him suspiciously. “Angel of Thursday.”

Castiel raised both eyebrows in mock disbelief, “An angel, huh?” He took another bite of his apple. “Doesn’t sound at all self-important,” he muttered just loud enough for Dean to hear.

“Cas, really?” Dean shot him a half-hearted glare. “It’s a stupid internet moniker, not a direct tunnel into his psyche.”

“Some people put a lot of thought into these things.” Castiel said, partly in his own defense, though Dean needn’t know that yet. “Alright so he’s not married, and I’d wager that he’s probably not a celestial being. I guess you’re in the clear.”

Dean huffed an amused laugh, “You sure? There’s nothing left for you to poison my impression of him with?”

Castiel laughed brightly, “I don’t think so, no.” He tossed his apple core in the trash bin next to the benches, and the rest of the oats into the pond as the ducks swam over to inspect his offering. The next phase of his plan was about to begin.

Dean thrust his hand out and grabbed Castiel’s arm abruptly, “Oh man, I can’t believe I forgot to tell you,” The smile on his face could have lit an entire city, “Jess went into early labour and had her baby. A girl this time.”

Castiel smiled back and clasped a hand on Dean’s shoulder, “Well, send my congratulations to her and Sam. Does she have a name yet?”

“Uh yeah, she does,” Castiel thought he saw a touch of wetness around Dean’s eyes before he quickly looked away. “It’s Mary. After my mom.”

Castiel squeezed Dean’s shoulder and dropped his hand, “That’s a lovely name, and a wonderful tribute to your mother.”

Dean nodded, smiling. He turned to toss his containers and packages back into his bag, and Cas may have caught him furtively wiping at his eyes before turning back around. “It really is.”

Dean pushed off the bench, shouldering his backpack. “I should head out, gotta meet Charlie for another book-writing sesh.”

Castiel stood as well, “I’ll leave with you, I have some work to do at home that I should be getting to.”

He motioned for Dean to lead the way back down the path toward the main road, and as he trailed along behind him, he hoped once again that his plan would work.

Dean twisted around to make sure he was still following, and he jogged a bit to catch up, realizing with stunning clarity just how hard he was falling for this man.

*

To                       Subject  
zeppelin67@....   (no subject)

So I’ve been thinking. I know I’ve not been the most up-front with you regarding certain aspects of my life (this is not a prelude to me revealing that I am, in fact, married, just so you know).   
  
I just wanted you to know that I have wanted to meet you every day since we first started exchanging these e-mails, and if you still want to meet me, I think I’m ready to do that now.

No stand-ups, no absences, I will be there. The rest is up to you.

There’s a promenade at 91st street in Riverside Park where the path curves and there’s a garden. If you still want to meet me, I’ll be there. Saturday, 4pm.

I sincerely hope to see you soon.  
Thursday.


	14. No Second Thoughts

Dean awoke Saturday morning, far earlier than he’d planned, nervous butterflies already fluttering around his midsection. He lay in the quiet dimness of his bedroom for several moments, trying to will himself back to sleep. It didn’t work. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and dragged himself to the kitchen to put on a pot coffee.

He continued into the living room where he booted up his laptop after unearthing it from a messy pile of storyboard sheets for the web-comic. It was barely 6:30, but he checked his e-mail nonetheless, just in case Thursday was having any second thoughts about meeting him and decided to cancel. Dean breathed a short sigh of relief when his inbox was empty.

The coffee maker beeped, and he poured himself a big cup, black, just the way he liked it. He’d need it to get him through the day until 4:00. And then who knew what would happen. He might need something stronger than coffee if Thursday pulled a no-show again.

Just like that, those seeds of worry and apprehension once again burrowed deep in the pit of Dean’s stomach. He needed a distraction. Lately, his go-to distracters had been Charlie and Castiel. Charlie, Dean knew, was going to be out of town all weekend with her girlfriend, visiting Gilda’s parents. But maybe Cas was free. He didn’t work Saturdays, to Dean’s recollection.

Dean pulled out his phone. It was still pretty early. He’d wait a couple hours before texting him, just in case Cas was bored and wanted something to do.

He’d just have to entertain himself for the time being.

*

After a meager breakfast of dry toast and coffee, the smell of food proving to be too much for his shaky stomach to handle this close to D-day, he pulled out his phone again. 7:59. Close enough.

 _‘Hey Cas. You busy?_ ’ he texted as nonchalantly as possible, and hit send. He closed his laptop, flicking on the TV and switching to the news for the weather report. The petite brunette meteorologist with perfect TV hair promised rain later in the day. He hoped she meant much, much later.

His phone buzzed.

‘ _I’m free for lunch, if you’re amenable_.’

Lunch was another four hours away. What was he gonna do for four whole hours to keep himself from losing his damn mind?

‘ _Sure, sounds good_.’

He had opened Netflix and was browsing through their ‘Recently Added’ list when his phone emitted another sharp vibration.

‘ _Café on the corner?’_

Dean knew which one he was referring to. They’d grabbed a coffee or a quick bite to eat there a few times now. It was kinda ‘their place’. A thing Dean never thought he’d have with Castiel Novak.

‘ _Great, meet you at 12’_

At least he’d get a couple hours of distraction in before the big reveal. His phone buzzed again.

_‘Looking forward to it.’_

So was Dean.

*

The weather was beginning to take a foul turn as Dean stepped out of his apartment building. He instantly regretted not taking his umbrella. At least it was only a short walk to the café. He made it there in record time, keeping a brisk pace, hoping to outrun the dark grey clouds moving in from the east.

Cas was waiting for him just outside the door. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey Cas.” Dean opened the door and ushered him inside. “I see the trench coat has once again made its appearance.”

Cas looked down at his body as if he’d forgotten he’d worn it. “Yes well, the weather forecast called for rain and it was a bit chilly this morning when I left for my meeting…”

“Okay, okay,” Dean held up a hand, “just saying. I kinda missed it.” He shrugged with a wry smile and went to stand in line.

“I didn’t know you felt so strongly about my coat, Dean.” Cas remarked in a low, husky voice that was far too close to Dean’s ear. He laughed when Dean batted him away with a hand over his shoulder.

“Asshole,” Dean muttered under his breath, adjusting his jacket and crossing his arms over his chest.

Castiel was still standing closer than was strictly compliant with line-up etiquette, and Dean knew he probably heard that, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He leaned back a smidge, just able to feel the warmth radiating from the body that was little less than a foot behind him.

“What can I get for you?” the boy behind the counter asked, and Dean realized it was his turn. He’d also realized that he had a tendency to space out whenever Cas was around.

His stomach hadn’t really calmed, but he needed to eat something or he was going to pass out soon. He decided, at least, to try.

“Can I get an Italian sub with everything and a coffee, black, please.” He handed the cash over for his bill and moved to the side so Cas could order.

They headed to their usual table as soon as their orders came out.

“So. What’s new?” Cas started in with the small talk, tearing into a bite of his club sandwich.

Dean shrugged, staring bleakly at the white ciabatta roll filled with pastrami, ham, cheese, and an assortment of vegetables. He picked at a bit of the bread and popped that in his mouth.

Castiel eyed him suspiciously. “Is everything alright, Dean?” When Dean looked up, Cas’ intense blue eyes were searching his face.

“Fine. Just,” he sighed, resigned. “I don’t know if I can eat right now.”

He raised an eyebrow. “ _You_ don’t want to eat? Are you getting sick again?”

“Hilarious.” He feigned offense. He’d wanted a distraction, not a gab session about why he was feeling like a teenager going to his first prom. But he figured there was no harm in telling Cas.

“I’m meeting Thursday later.” He caught a flash of what looked to be disappointment and he instantly felt kinda guilty for telling him. “He asked me to meet him today. At four.”

Castiel was quiet for a moment, “You don’t seem happy about it.”

“I am, it’s just…” he trailed off.

“What?” Castiel prompted, eyes once again searching his face.

“What if he doesn’t show again?” Dean hated how needy he sounded, how cloying. But if anyone would understand his anxiety over this, it’s Cas. He was there for the last time.

“He’ll show.” Cas stated resolutely. Dean must have been giving him a look like he didn’t believe him, because he leaned forward and looked pointedly in his eyes. “He will, Dean.”

Dean dropped his gaze, feeling a little better about the food on his plate. He picked it up and took a tentative bite. It wasn’t making his stomach churn. That was a good sign.

Castiel cleared his throat, “So, where did he ask you to meet him?”

“Riverside Park,” Dean belayed around another mouthful of sandwich.

He caught the eye roll for his lack of table manners. “He must live nearby.”

Dean hummed thoughtfully, “Yeah, weird isn’t it? We could have run into each other a thousand times by now and never known it.”

Castiel coughed violently, mid-sip of his chai tea. “That’s a definite possibility,” he rasped.

Dean nodded and turned to gaze out the window. People were walking quickly past, looking at the ominous sky and turning up their coat collars. “God I hope it doesn’t rain. Why’d he have to pick the damn park…”

Castiel hummed his agreement, “Indeed. I take it you didn’t bring an umbrella with you?”

Dean shook his head, his attention returning to the table. “I’ll probably need one though. I should get back, there’s some stuff I’ve gotta take care of before… well, you know.”

The wind was beginning to pick up as they left the café. Dean turned his collar up against the biting chill and was about to wave goodbye and make a run for it when Cas placed a hand on his arm.

“Can I ask you something, Dean?” He looked a bit anxious himself. Dean nodded and they crowded a bit closer to the building in an attempt to shield some of the wind and the fat raindrops that were just beginning to fall.

“We’ve been seeing a lot of each other lately,” Cas began, a bit apprehensive. “It’s been good, right? I’m not imagining that?”

Dean furrowed his brows, “No, it’s been pretty awesome, actually.”

Cas bit his bottom lip and Dean would be lying if he said it was the first time he’d thought about crowding him against a wall and grabbing that full, chapped bottom lip with his own teeth. He was so entranced by this mental image that he nearly missed Cas’ next sentence.

“I’m glad that we were able to become friends, despite our history,” He was still worrying that bottom lip and it was going to cause a huge problem for Dean if he didn’t walk away.

Cas stepped closer, and alarm bells started going off, “But please, be honest with me.” He stared intently at Dean, piercing blue eyes searching his own.

“Am I the only one who wishes we could be more than that?”

He wanted honesty, but even Dean wasn’t 100% certain of his feelings. He knew they were there, but he couldn’t gauge which were stronger – his feelings for Thursday, which had been accumulating for months now, or his feelings for Cas, which had come on hard and fast in a matter of weeks.

“No, you’re not.” He admitted.

Dean was kicking himself as he looked at the hopeful smile gracing Cas' lips.

“But I have to see this through. This thing with Thursday.” He swallowed thickly, only half-believing that he was passing up _Cas,_ who was right in front of him, for a faceless _possibility_. The rain was falling in earnest now, pelting the sidewalk and the aluminum awning of the cafe and making Dean feel even more miserable.

“I’m sorry, Cas. I have to go.” He tore away from the taut, unreadable expression Cas had blanketed over whatever he was trying to hide, and strode down the street toward his building, not daring to look back.


	15. You Can Probably Guess Where This is Going

Dean left his apartment at 3:30 that afternoon, having spent almost an hour trying to psych himself up enough to get changed and put his shoes on. He was excited to finally meet the face behind the computer screen, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Cas.

Was he crazy, going after some faceless guy from the internet when Cas had been standing right in front of him, declaring in no uncertain terms that he wanted to be _more than friends_? He’d come too far with Thursday to back out on meeting him now, even if it was Thursday who stood him up first.

Finally, he decided he would go. He’d meet Thursday, and proceed from there once all had been revealed. He only hoped that Castiel wasn’t finished with him. If nothing else, Dean still hoped they could remain friends. He wasn’t ready to give that up as well.

The rain was still pounding the pavement when he got down to the lobby. He grabbed one of the umbrellas sitting in an old metal trash can by the elevator, took a deep breath, and pushed through the glass doors and on to the street.

*

By the time he reached the garden in Riverside Park, there was almost no one around. The weather had seemingly scared off all the tourists and mid-day joggers that would normally be milling about the park. Despite the umbrella, he’d still managed to get sopping wet from the knees down. His shoes squelched with every step and he was miserable.

_The one rainy day we’ve had all month…_ Dean complained. _We couldn’t have done this indoors?_

He spotted a bench near a swath of golden flowers and debated sitting, rain be damned, while he waited. He was still a good fifteen minutes early.

He sat on the bench and watched as the rain bounced off the cobblestone path. Cas kept popping back into his head. His smile, his laugh when he found something particularly amusing. His face when Dean left him earlier.

He stood up and paced for a few minutes. He turned his thoughts to Sam and Jess and the new baby and wondered how Henry was adjusting to being a big brother.

He sat back down and was about to pull out his phone and call Sam, anything to distract him from the waiting, when he caught a flash of beige out of the corner of his eye.

He whipped his head around, hardly believing his eyes.

Castiel was standing ten feet away, soaked to the bone, wearing that totally weather-inappropriate trench coat and a smirk. He shrugged, smile widening and took a step forward.

Dean shot up, umbrella tossed to the ground, forgotten. He hadn’t seen this coming.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he choked out.

Castiel looked a bit taken aback, like he hadn’t expected Dean to react that way.

After all that, it was _Cas_. Months of e-mailing back and forth, _Cas._ Even when they’d hated each other, it was _Cas._ Which also meant that Thursday _didn’t_ stand him up at the café that night because _Thursday was Cas_. Dean could never have predicted this, but of course Cas would have known for months now.

“It was you the whole time.” Dean didn’t know whether to laugh or punch the guy. He was torn between something like elation and a desire to be pissed off at Cas for playing him like a god damned fiddle.

“I’m afraid so,” Castiel admitted, closing the distance between them in a few leisurely strides. “Are you disappointed?” He was looking up at Dean with those impossibly blue eyes, their vibrancy somehow undiminished in the grey, gloomy light. He had that bottom lip caught between his teeth again. Dean shook his head, water droplets flying every which way. Of course he wasn’t. If anything, this had worked out kind of perfectly. He was planning on having to make a choice; Castiel or Thursday. Now that he knew they were one in the same…

“I wouldn’t say ‘disappointed’,” he confessed with a smirk. “But you are an asshole for letting me stew like that for weeks.” He stepped closer, leaving only a few inches between them.

Cas dropped his gaze to Dean’s mouth, “I know.” He nodded, blinking rain out of his eyes. “I should have told you earlier.”

“Way earlier,” Dean agreed, pulling back to look at him properly. “Why didn’t you?”

Castiel sighed, pursing his lips briefly, “I had to make sure you didn’t hate me first.”

Dean frowned, “I didn’t hate you.”

Cas raised one eyebrow in a silent, disbelieving question.

Dean shoved his hands in his pockets to try and warm them up. “Okay, I wasn’t your biggest fan at the time, but I liked Thursday! And you _are_ Thursday.”

Water was dripping from the ends of Castiel’s thoroughly drenched hair. “So you would have happily accepted that _I_ was Thursday the first time we met at the café?”

Well he had him there. There was no way Dean would have suspected that his then-nemesis Castiel Novak was the person he was slowly falling for online. Then again, Castiel had to have been pretty surprised when he saw him sitting there. He asked him as much.

“I couldn’t believe it at first, but as soon as I saw it was you, it all started to make sense.” Castiel moved closer again, reaching up to brush aside the wet hair sticking to Dean’s forehead. “I remembered the first time we met, at your store, and how wonderful you were with Michael and Hannah, and how genuinely kind you were. Not to mention infuriatingly gorgeous...”

Dean scoffed at that, looking away and prompting Cas to raise his other hand and draw his face back to center position.

Castiel flashed him an adorable half-smile, patting the side of his face gently. “Then I realized, it couldn’t have been anyone else.”

Dean’s breath caught in his chest. Cas had one hand curled around the back of Dean’s neck, thumb absently brushing along his jaw line, the other still cupping the side of his face, and Dean only had one thought on his mind.

“Damnit Cas, just kiss me already,” he growled, his breathing ragged with want and only made worse by the fact that it was _fucking freezing_ and he was probably close to catching hypothermia.

Castiel grinned, tightening his grip and stepping impossibly closer, “Whatever you say, Zeppelin6—”

He didn’t even get out the seven before Dean finally closed the gap between them, pressing their mouths together in an impatient, too-wet, indescribably perfect kiss, and Dean momentarily forgot about the fact that there was a small lake filling his shoes.

Dean pulled back first, finding himself a bit overwhelmed.

“Thank god it was you,” he mumbled, pressing his forehead against Cas’. “I don’t know what I would have done if it had been someone else. I don’t think I could have gone through with it.”

“I’m sorry I kept it from you.” Castiel stroked a hand through his wet hair soothingly, “I’m here now.” He pushed their lips together again, throwing his arms around Dean’s shoulders when he felt the other man’s tighten around his waist.

The rain continued to pour, they were both soaked through, and the one jogger crazy enough to be out in this weather may have given them a weird look as she ran past, but none of that mattered.

Cas had his arms wrapped around his neck like Dean was the only thing keeping him on his feet, he tasted like bitter coffee and smelled like the air right before a thunderstorm and Dean was intent on enjoying every second of it.

**-A Brief Epilogue-**

Half an hour and one very satisfying, very rainy make-out session later, they ducked into the lobby of Dean’s apartment building, shaking off as much excess water as they could. The umbrella had blown off at some point during their _conversation_ in the park, but by that point, it really didn’t matter.

They peeled off their jackets and stepped into the elevator, grinning like idiots, the pair of them. As soon as the doors closed, Dean found himself being pushed against the wall by an eager, handsy Cas.

Dean’s damp plaid shirt was half off and he was breathless by the time the doors opened on the third floor. He pushed Cas off with a laugh and a halfhearted warning to behave. He stepped away from the wall, gathering their coats and all but running to his door.

Castiel strolled along behind him innocently, hands clasped tight behind his back. He leaned into Dean as he was trying to wrestle his key from his jacket pocket. “I’d hurry up if I were you,” he hummed very close to Dean’s ear, “Unless you want one of your neighbours to catch us in a compromising position…”

Dean swore under his breath, fitting the key in the lock and pushing into the apartment, dragging Cas with him and closing the door with a little too much force.

“You suck,” He pointed a finger accusingly at Castiel, who smiled, serenely.

“If you insist.”

Dean blinked, and then covered his face with both hands and groaned, leaning against the door. “Seriously, Cas?” He grinned, in spite of himself. “I can’t believe you just made that joke.”

When he lowered his hands, Castiel was much closer, “Who said I was joking?” Strong arms wrapped around his waist and then they were kissing again, much less hurried and desperate now that they were out of the rain.

They were still dripping water, and it was gathering in puddles all over the hardwood. As happy as Dean was staying right there in Cas’ arms, he didn’t want to have to forfeit his safety deposit due to water damage.

_Towels_.

Dean swiveled them around, slowly pulling away as Cas tried to chase his mouth.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded, arms tightening.

Dean extricated himself from Cas’ limbs and headed for the linen closet, “Be right back.” He returned with two fluffy beige towels and tossed one to the floor, mopping up the pool of water with his foot. He turned to Cas, who was sporting an impatient frown, and draped the second towel over his head, gently drying his hair with both hands.

When he pulled the towel off, the frown had been replaced with a content, lazy smile. His hair was sticking up in several places and curling at the ends. “Why’d you stop?” He groused.

Dean laughed quietly, handing him the towel and directing him to his room. “Go take off those wet clothes before you catch a cold.” At the mischievous glint in Cas’ eye, he added, “You can borrow some clothes for now.”

He noted the disapproving glare and laughed louder, “ _Go._ ” He pushed him toward his bedroom door. “I’ll make us some dinner.”

Castiel grumbled, but obliged, returning to find Dean in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove. His stomach growled, betraying just how hungry he was, “What are you making?”

“A classic,” Dean grinned at Cas wearing his grey sweats and an old Black Sabbath t-shirt, standing in his kitchen and looking like he belonged there. “Tomato soup with rice. Figured we could use something warm.”

Castiel crept up behind Dean and rested his chin on his shoulder. “Sounds perfect.”

Dean twisted around, snaking an arm around Cas’ waist and pulling him in for another kiss, effectively warming them both from head to toe, but without the heat and intensity from earlier.

“Did you ever think we’d be here?” Cas asked, toying with the hem of Dean’s t-shirt.

Dean shook his head. “I’m glad we’re here now.” He turned off the element as an afterthought and pressed his forehead to Castiel’s.

“These last few weeks, I found myself wanting things I hadn’t even considered. I kinda stopped wanting Thursday, and I started to want you.” He huffed, a short, amused laugh, “Who knew I’d end up getting both?”

“Well,” Castiel leaned back, looking at Dean with a wry smile, “technically, I did.”

He ducked away to avoid the wooden spoon that Dean swung at him as he muttered, “You’re such a _dick_ ,” before proceeding to divide the soup into two bowls and thrusting one into Castiel’s hands as he laughed madly.

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” Castiel vowed solemnly, holding one hand over his heart while simultaneously ruining it with that stupid grin.

Dean grumbled a grumpy, “damn right,” and dropped onto the couch, staring expectantly at Cas when he didn’t immediately come sit beside him.

“You know, I’m not even mad about that. I’m too damn relieved.” Dean laughed, mostly to himself.

Castiel smiled, situating himself as close to Dean on the couch cushions as was physically possible.

“Good.” He reached for the remote on the side table next to Dean, effectively straddling him in the process. “Because I’m pretty sure I’ve been in love with you since I saw you sitting alone in that café.”

Dean was struck by the affection pouring from those brilliant blue eyes, all thoughts of food abandoned. He slid his hands down Cas’ back to rest at his hips, tilting his face up to receive another kiss. “I love you too, Angel of Thursday.”

_Wait,_ realization hit him like a brick wall. _Angel…_

“Oh my god.” Dean leaned back, staring somewhere off behind Castiel’s head.

“Dean?” Castiel was searching his face, confused.

“Your name.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, bewildered by his own blind ignorance. “You’re named after an angel. How did I not pick up on that?” He hissed, irritated with his own slowness.

Castiel shrugged, “I was really banking on you not being able to piece that one together, once I discovered it was you. Otherwise my plan would have failed spectacularly.”

“Your plan?” Dean quirked an eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest.

Castiel placed a hand on the back of the couch on either side of Dean’s head. “I thought you weren’t mad about that?” he murmured, far too close to Dean’s ear.

Dean hummed as Cas leaned in for a much more heated, searching kiss.

“What was I mad about again?” Another kiss. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”

Castiel laughed, a bright, happy sound. “You know, I can’t recall.” He rolled off Dean and sat cross-legged beside him, switching on the TV and grabbing one of the bowls of soup.

Dean watched him for a moment, still amazed that they had come this far. Castiel Novak was sitting in his living room, wearing his clothes and telling Dean that he loved him.

Five months ago, they were bitter rivals, unknowingly falling for each other via e-mail. Now they were here.

Dean shook his head at the absurdity of it all, and reached for the other bowl. He ate his soup while he watched Cas watch Mission: Impossible 3 on TV.

He smiled when Cas caught him staring and dove in for another kiss, and as he wrestled the remote away from him, dodging Cas’ lips and grinning as the frustrated pout return, he wondered how his life could get any better than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's that. Thanks for sticking with me this far and I hope you enjoyed the ride :)
> 
> Now for the disclaimer: As someone who does not live in New York and has never been to New York, we can assume that my descriptions of places in the city are going to be less than accurate. The only fixed landmark that I used from the actual film was the garden in Riverside Park where they meet at the end. Everything else is from my own, imagined version of New York City. 
> 
> Also, If you haven't watched this movie, you should. It's really quite adorable.


End file.
